The Tales from the Crypt Stories
by kade32
Summary: These are some of my favorite Tales from the Crypt stories I have found online or on YouTube.
1. Country Clubbing

**Country Clubbing (The Haunt of Fear #23, January/February 1954)**

Far off, the swamps echoed with the blood-curdling yelps of bloodhounds. For on this dark night, the chain gang was searching for one escaped convict.

 _CONVICT: "Gotta stop...rest...eat...hungry! Hungry!"_

As if in answer to his wild, breathless babbling, a light breaks through the darkness.

 _CONVICT: "A shack! They'll have food! I'll kill 'em! Kill 'em dead! Stupid rotten people oughta be dead fer just livin' in this smelly hog slop! This here cypress stick'll make me a good club! Beat their brains out! Beat 'em out dead!"_

 _"Woman! Gimme that there food! I'm hungry!"_

The convict quivered and convulsed with the excitement of food at last! Food all for him and no one else! Him alone!

Alone?

It stood huge and ugly. It was a man. The dead woman's man. His face would scare the wits out of any striped skunk. And it did.

 _CONVICT: "Oh nooooo! Git away! Don't touch me! I-I didn't mean to hit her! I wuz hungry! Honest! OWWWWWWWW! HEEEEELLLLPPPP! It's th' devil himself! I ain't ready fer ya yet! Ya gotta ketch me! Lemme outa here!"_

Back out into the darkness and the swamps, he ran. Even the hounds would be better for him than this ghoulish-looking monster.

 _CONVICT: "Heh! Heh! I can out-leg him, the stumbling idiot!"_

Yet he still followed...with the club!

His wild running brought him back onto the path of the baying bloodhounds. Their throats sore and eager for a swallow of flesh.

 _CONVICT: "My legs! Can't move 'em! I'm exhausted! No, no! It's QUICKSAND! Gotta pull up! I'll pull up this tree. Climb it so the dogs cain't git me!"_

 _"At last! No muddy earth nor dawg kin eat me! AAEEE! It's a rat! It's got me! Help! It's a filthy possum! I'll fling ya to the dawgs! While they eatcha, I'm skedadlin'!"_

Yet he still followed...with the club!

 _CONVICT: "If thet crazy critter thinks he's gonna ketch me, he better get a boat, 'cause I'm travlin' on water from here on out!"_

The convict waded into the black swamp water after a floating log that would carry him to freedom.

 _CONVICT: "Can't see too well! This log'll do. A 'GAAAAATTTOOOOORRRRR!"_

With crazed strength, the convict grabbed a dangling vine and climbed to safety.

 _CONVICT: "'Gator bait, I ain't gonna be!"_

Yet he still followed...with the club!

As he untangled himself from the vines that twisted around his arms and legs, one vine began to slowly move.

 _CONVICT: "Oh good lord! A snake!"_

True! It was a snake. A long, brown and yellow cottonmouth snake. And it sank it's teeth into the convict, ejecting it's stored up venom.

 _CONVICT: "You did it! You bit me! You !?*#$! I'll teach ya!"_

In his fit of fear and anger, he beat the reptile to death.

 _CONVICT: "I'll kill ya! Kill ya! Kill ya!"_

Suddenly, the swamp answered back to him with a wild hum of gnats and mosquitoes. Followed by pursuing bats, flapping and frightening the convict deeper into the swamp. He ran wild. Fear, now, had control of his criminal brain. Only instinct kept him fighting to escape the murdered woman's man.

Yet he still followed...with the CLUB!

The Okefenokee had now sapped all of his energy. He couldn't go on. This was it.

 _CONVICT: "He's gonna git me. Git me like I got his wife! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt her! Let me live! I don't wanna die! Don't use th' club! Stay away! Keep away! Don't kill me! It'll be murder! You'll be a murderer! HELP! PLEASE HEEELP!"_

 _MAN: "Uh, here's ya club, mistuh. Ya fergot an' left it way back at muh house."_

 _CONVICT: "I...heh, heh...I forgot my...heh, heh...club. Isn't that...heh, heh...funny? I...heh, heh...FORGOT my...heh, heh...ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"_


	2. The Silent Treatment

**The Silent Treatment (The Haunt of Fear #27, September/October 1954)**

Once upon a time, long, long ago, huddled on a bed in a cabin high in the mountains, a king lay stiffly, rigidly, not daring to move, not daring hardly to breathe, not daring to do anything except wait and listen and know that if he heard it again, that if it started again, that maddening sound, that his mind would surely snap and he'd rave and rant and finally fling himself from the cliff outside down into the final silent peace called death.

And as the king lay there in that quiet dismal far-away cabin far from the sounds of his kingdom, he thought about how it had been before this. Before he craved utter and complete silence. He thought about the Princess Genevieve. Pretty little Genevieve.

 _GENEVIEVE: "Daddy! My cat! I...I..."_

 _KING: "More wine! More food! Come, musicians! Play! Jesters dance! And you! You, little wench. Come here."_

The queen, Genevieve's mother, had died with her birth, but the infant had not replaced the emptiness that had been left in the king's heart. So the king had surrounded himself with a song and merriment and a court of beautiful, laughing woman to help him forget.

 _CONCUBINE: "The king is hot-blooded this day."_

 _KING: "I'm always hot-blooded with you, Morganna."_

 _GENEVIEVE: "Daddy, my cat! It's caught in the ivy vine!"_

So orchestras had played and jesters had squealed and the ladies of the court had laughed and chattered and whispered coquettish things into the king's ear. And the palace had been filled with noise. The noise of gaiety and fun. Loud noise, drowning-out noise, drowning out a little princess's plea.

 _GENEVIEVE: "...caught in the ivy vine outside the tower window, daddy! Please help me rescue her, daddy! Daddy? My cat! Daddy?"_

 _CONCUBINE: "A hot-blooded man is a real man, your majesty."_

 _KING: "Kiss me, wench."_

The din of self-indulgence had echoed through the palace as the Princess Genevieve had shrugged and turned at her father's indifference and climbed the long winding tower steps, the tears streaming from her eyes.

 _GENEVIEVE: "He...He never listens! He never hears me! He never hears anything I say!"_

The little princess had mounted to the tower window, determined to rescue her trapped pet herself. She'd reached out coaxing loving arms as the melee of noise drifted up to her.

 _GENEVIEVE: "Here, pussy! Please pussy! Come to Genevieve! Please."_

But she leaned out too far. She slipped from the tower window, clawing, catching herself on the ivy, clinging there precariously, high above the din. And she screamed.

 _GENEVIEVE: "Daddy! Help me! Daddy! Help!"_

But the king had not heard his little daughter's cries. Her childish screams had not been able to penetrate the merriment and cavorting noise that reverberated through the throne room.

 _KING: "More win! Play! Sing! Louder! Louder!"_

And so, the princess, Genevieve, had hung there, crying for help, until her tiny fingers had weakened and grown tired and lost their hold on the twisting vines and she plunged downward, shrieking.

 _GENEVIEVE: "YAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"_

Then, suddenly, a strange silence had fallen upon the castle as the echoes of a plunging dying shriek had faded away. The kind had stood up, his mouth quivering, his eyes wide.

 _KING: "What...what was that?"_

 _SERVANT: "It's the princess, sire! She's fallen from the tower window! She's...dead!"_

The king had not heard his daughter's plea, her cries for help. The king had been surrounded with ear-splitting noise. And now, the noise and his daughter had both died away.

 _KING: "Genevieve! *sob* Genevieve!"_

After the princess's death, the king had ordered the orchestras disbanded, the jesters stilled, the laughing women of the court away. The king had wanted silence now. A silence of mourning.

 _SERVANT: "Your majesty, I-"_

 _KING: "Shhhh!"_

And so, months had passed. The mourning period had ended for the people of the kingdom. Once more, church bells had tolled and oxcarts had rumbled and the people had gone about their business. But for the king, the mourning period had not ended. It would never end. Each sound that reached the king's ears brought with it the echo of a girl's shriek of death.

 _KING: "Stop it! Stop that clattering!"_

 _SERVANT: "Yes, your majesty!"_

The conscience-striken king had grown more and more sensitive to noise as time had gone by. A dreadful silence had come upon the palace. The servants, wary of incurring the king's wrath, had been forced to move about the marble halls in their stocking feet. A nervous care was taken to see that no unnecessary sound made or else.

 _MAID: "Oops!"_

 _KING: "Blast you, clumsy! I want it quiet!"_

But even with the dead stillness surrounding him in the palace, the king had not been satisfied. In the town far below, the tolling of the church bell had grated upon his acutely sensitive ears.

 _SERVANT: "It's a wedding, your majesty. The people are rejoicing."_

 _KING: "Order the bell silenced! Have it removed and melted down! I can't stand the noise!"_

The people of the kingdom were not happy that their glorious bell could no longer sing out. But what could they do? The king had ordered silence and the king was the king.

 _KING: "What is that? What's that hammering and clanging down there?"_

 _SERVANT: "It is the blacksmith, sire. He is tempering the horseshoes..."_

 _KING: "Order him to stop! Order him to stop immediately!"_

Then the king called his royal prime minister.

 _KING: "Issue an order! There will be no noise! I want silence, do you hear? Silence? Anyone who dares defy me will be thrown in irons!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "Yes, your majesty."_

The blacksmith had been ordered to stop his anvil hammering, thereby forcing him to close down. But he had been arrested when he tacked up his notice.

 _BLACKSMITH: "But I only-!"_

 _GUARD: "Silence, idiot!"_

Merchants had been forced to abandon their oxcarts as a means of carrying about their merchandise, because of the racket the wooden wheels made on the cobblestones.

 _GUARD: "Get down off of there! You're under arrest!"_

 _MERCHANT: "Please have pity!"_

Carpenters were forced to give up the trade, because their sawing and nailing irritated their king. Building was halted.

 _CARPENTER: "My roof leaked! I had to-!"_

 _GUARD: "Come with us! It's the dungeon for you!"_

Finally, the sound-sensitive king had looked out over his silent kingdom from his silent palace and nodded in relieved approval. Now all was quiet. Now all what still. And then he heard the babble. Like mice in walls, the chattering, the distant sounds of voices.

 _KING: "Order them to stop talking!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "Yes, your highness."_

Talking was outlawed. The people had taken to whispering. Anyone who accidentally talked in a normal voice was immediately carted off and his tongue cut out. The king looked out over his silent kingdom from his silent palace and he nodded. And then he heard the hissing. The sibilant murmurs like wind-blown leaves.

 _KING: "Order them to stop whispering!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "Yes, sire."_

And so, all whispering had been banished from the kingdom. The people had taken to writing communication between themselves. Everyone carried implements with them. And the king looked out and he heard the scratching, the rubbing of chalk on slate like summer rain.

 _KING: "Order them to stop writing!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "Yes, your majesty."_

Now the people could do nothing but sit and stare at each other. And the king looked out over his silent kingdom and he heard the faint sighs, the sucking in and expelling out of air from their lungs like spring breezes.

 _KING: "ORDER THEM TO STOP BREATHING!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "But, your majesty!"_

The king raved and ranted, insisting upon the order.

 _PRIME MINISTER: "But, your majesty! If the people do not breath, they will die!"_

 _KING: "Then let them die! I WANT SILENCE!"_

And over the silent, silent kingdom, his voice carried like an echo.

 _VILLAGER #1: "Did you hear?"_

 _VILLAGER #2: "The fool has gone far enough!"_

The prime minister had shuffled off on padded feet and the king stood in the silence and listened, waiting for the sounds of the breathing that drifted up to him from the kingdom below to stop. But instead, he heard a stirring.

 _KING: "They're talking! They're whispering again!"_

And the stirring had become a murmur and the murmur a humming and the humming a roar and the roar had thundered up the mountain toward the palace.

 _KING: "Silence! Silence, you fools! Go back! Go back and keep quiet!"_

The thunder had been so loud, it drowned out the shrieks of the king. The thunder had been a thousand angry voices, a thousand pairs of angry feet. The carpenters, the blacksmiths, the merchants and leading them, a craftsman named Mason Higgins. Mason Higgins had clutched a small box in his hands.

 _HIGGINS: "Swim the moat!"_

 _VILLAGER #3: "Lower the drawbridge!"_

The thundering people had stormed the palace and overpowered the guards and stampeded through the marble halls and found the king.

 _VILLAGERS: "There he is! Get him! Higgins, the box!"_

 _KING: "Oh, lord! The noise!"_

The king had been forced to the floor and the people had done things to him with knives and needles and threads and Mason Higgins's little box. So, once upon a time, a king lay stiffly, rigidly, on a bed in a cabin high in the mountains where his people had exiled him. He lay, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to do anything but wait and listen and know that if he'd hear that sound again, just once, he's go out of his mind. It wouldn't happen as long as he lay still. It wouldn't happen as long as he wouldn't move. The king knew that. He suffered hours of torture time and time again during his brief exile. He'd born up under the maddening sound until it stopped and he found out! He found out that if he moved, it would start again!

So he lay stiffly, like stone, like silent stone and he watched the spider. The silent spider on the ceiling spinning it's silent web. And he watched the web lengthen and the spider drop, inch by inch, lower and lower, until it hung just above his face. And he still did not move. He just prayed. He prayed that the spider in the silent, silent cabin would silently climb back up it's silent silken thread, instead of...instead of...Oh, lord! The spider was coming closer, closer, closer to the king's face.

And then it touched him and he shuddered and screamed and swung at the spider and the silence was destroyed. That sound! That maddening sound began again! That incessant maddening tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The sound that was driving him out of his mind.

 _KING: "No! No! NO!"_

The sound coming from the special metronome time-piece Mason Higgins had labored over, ever so quietly, after they made him close his shop and stop his clocks. The metronome time-piece that wound up automatically at the slightest, slightest movement and took hours to run down. The metronome time-piece they seen inside the king before they had gone back to their normal noisy routines living happily ever after.

While the king went off the deep end...off a cliff.

 _KING: "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"_


	3. Mess Call

**Mess Call (Tales from the Crypt #41, April/May 1954)**

Ahhh! It is warm and dry here. It is good to feel warm and dry. I am so tired, so very tired. And my eyes are heavy with sleep. I close them. I sleep...

 _OBERLEUTNANT: "Come, Corporal! Wake up! On your feet! I have for you an important assignment! Come at once!_

I am going out there again. I do not like it out there. It is wet and cold out there. Here it is warm and dry.

 _OBERLEUTNANT: "You will proceed to Area 14 N.W. You will date your report November 21, 1917 and the exact hour. That is important!"_

 _HANS: "Yes, Oberleutnant."_

I am crawling on my belly through the mud. It is cold and damp and I shiver and my teeth chatter. I grip my Mauser tighter. I am approaching Area 41 N.W. I must be quiet. They are there. The enemy. They are just over that hill ahead. I will hide in this shell-hole. I must be quiet. November 21, 1917, 10:40 P.M., Enemy Position: 115 yds. West of...I stop writing my report. I listen. Someone is here. Here in this shell-hole. With me! He comes at me! An enemy soldier! I swing my Mauser around, sending my bayonet into his soft belly, plunging it upward, feeling the crunching bone, hearing the sucking sounds. I am frightened. His arms swing outward. I pull my bayonet and thrust again. Stabbing, slashing, cutting him to ribbons. I see his face, his eyes and the blood pouring and I am sick.

He...he is dead! And now my oberleutnant is calling me...calling me back. Everything is fading. No! It is not my oberleutnant calling me. It is the doctor's voice. I am back where it is warm and dry. The doctor is talking to that man about me.

 _DOCTOR: "So you have seen for yourself, Herr Heinrich. It is always the same violent nightmare! He dreams vividly, each night of that experience in the trenches. It haunts him. However, he is perfectly strong and healthy in every other respect. So you need not have any fears."_

I was asleep, but I am awake now. It is morning and the doctor is talking to Herr Heinrich.

 _DOCTOR: "...and so I have arranged everything. You may take him today. I need not tell you how grateful we are!"_

 _HEINRICH: "Ach! I am glad to do this for him, Herr Doctor."_

 _DOCTOR: "Hans, I have news! You are leaving here today, my boy. Herr Heinrich is taking you to his home to live. You will help out in his shop, of course, but the work will be light and the hours short! What do you think of this, Hans?"_

 _HANS: "This is very good of you, Herr Heinrich."_

 _HEINRICH: "Ach! It is nothing, Hans."_

We are riding in a carriage. It is good to be out of the hospital. Herr Heinrich is a kind man.

 _HEINRICH: "Yes, meat is very scarce, Hans. But I have saved carefully and sell only to my own customers and friends. But enough of business. Look! There is my house. Your new home."_

Herr Heinrich's house is big. It is very nice to live in a big house.

 _HEINRICH: "Well, Hans, how do you like it? Do you think you will be comfortable?"_

 _HANS: "Oh, yes, Herr Heinrich! It is a fine house."_

This food is good. I like especially the pickled meats and the wine.

 _HEINRICH: "To your good health, Hans. Here! More wine, my boy. It is good for you."_

 _HANS: "It is wonderful wine and delicious food, too!"_

My room, it has nice things. The bed is very soft and I am tired.

 _HEINRICH: "Sleep well, Hans. And remember. Tomorrow, we go to my butcher shop. Good night."_

 _HANS: "Good night, Herr Heinrich. I will work hard for you."_

Ahhh! It is warm here, warm and dry. I lie on my new soft bed and I doze...

 _OBERLEUTNANT: Come, Corporal! Wake up! On your feet!"_

I am stabbing, slashing, cutting him to ribbons. I see the blood pouring and I am sick! He is dead. And now my oberleutnant is calling...calling me back. No! It is not my oberleutnant. It is...

 _HEINRICH: "Hans! Come! Wake up! It is a fine morning and we have a fine breakfast waiting."_

 _HANS: "Huh? Oh, Herr Heinrich."_

The air is cool, but I am warm. We are walking to Herr Heinrich's shop. I feel good.

 _HEINRICH: "We are soon there, Hans. Only until the end of this narrow street."_

 _HANS: "But I see no shop, Herr Heinrich."_

 _HEINRICH: "Ach! Of course you don't see it, Hans. I am exclusive. If I were to have a big open store, all Germany would come to me for meat and pfoof! In one day, they would clean me out. Understand? Ah! Here we are."_

 _HANS: "Yes, Herr Heinrich! I understand."_

There is much meat in Herr Heinrich's shop and many people come to buy.

 _HEINRICH: "There you go, Herr Ludmeyer. 2 pounds, correct? How about some schnapps at my house tonight? We can talk about the meat shortage. Ha, ha!"_

 _LUDMEYER: "Ach! Not only do you sell me meat, but you invite me to your house? Yes, I would enjoy that, Herr Heinrich."_

Herr Ludmeyer has come. We are drinking and eating good pickled meats. And I grow tired.

 _LUDMEYER: "This meat! It is wonderful? But you? You don't eat any, Herr Heinrich?"_

 _HEINRICH: "Ach! When you are a butcher, you eat too much meat! Ha, ha! But come, Herr Ludmeyer, I must show you my wine cellar!"_

 _HANS: "I will go to bed now. Good night."_

I go to my room and undress and lie on my soft bed. Soft and warm and dry.

 _OBERLEUTNANT: Come, Corporal! Wake up! On your feet!"_

He comes at me and I swing around, sending my bayonet into his soft belly, cutting, stabbing, slashing him to ribbons. The blood pouring...pouring...I am sweeping the shop. I do this every morning. And I help Herr Heinrich lift the heavy things. I am strong.

 _HEINRICH: "Hans! Come give me a hand, like a good fellow."_

 _HANS: "Yes, Herr Heinrich."_

 _HEINRiCH: "There! That is good. Ha, ha! No one in Germany has as much meat as I! Ah, another customer is here!"_

Herr Heinrich is friendly. He is again inviting someone to his house.

 _HEINRICH: "Yes, Gustav. We need relaxation. You...you can your wife. Come to my house tonight. We will have schnapps. What do you say?"_

 _GUSTAV: "Fine, Heinrich, fine! I bring my wife! Tell me, where do you live?"_

Again, I am drinking and eating with Herr Heinrich's friends. Many times I do this. Tonight, I don't feel good. Drinking too much.

 _HEINRICH: "Oh, Frau Shotz. You have tasted nothing until you have tried the imported wines in my wine cellar. Come, Gustav, Frau Shotz. I will show you!"_

 _FRAU SHOTZ: "You are a generous host, Herr Heinrich!"_

 _HANS: "I...I am very sleepy. I will go to bed, now. Good night."_

I am in my room. It is dark here! I am dizzy! Everything is spinning and I am falling...falling...M-my head! It hurts! It...it is warm and dry here. It is good to feel warm and dry. I am so tired. And...

 _OBERLEUTNANT/HEINRICH: Come, Corporal! Wake up! On your feet! I have for you an important assignment!"_

 _HEINRICH: "Hurry, Corporal! There is much to do tonight. Come! Come!"_

 _HANS: "Yes, Oberleutnant."_

It is cold and damp and I shiver and my teeth chatter.

 _HEIRNICH: "This way, Corporal! This way! But be careful. The enemy is just over that hill."_

I must be quiet. I will hide in the shell-hole and make out my report.

 _HANS: "November 21, 1917. 10:40 P.M. Enemy Position: 115 yards. West of..."_

 _HEINRICH: "Listen, Hans, listen! Take this! Your Mauser."_

Someone is in this shell-hole with me. I turn, gripping my Mauser.

 _HEINRICH: "There he is, Hans! Get him! Get him!"_

An enemy soldier. I swing around, sending my bayonet into his soft belly, feeling the crunching bone, hearing the sucking sound.

 _HEINRICH: "Good, Hans! Now go to work."_

I pull out my bayonet and trust again, stabbing, slashing, cutting him to ribbons.

 _HEINRICH: "Careful, Hans! Careful!"_

I see his face, his eyes and the blood pouring...pouring and I am sick.

 _HEINRICH: "Hans! Why do you stop? Finish! Finish your work!"_

My head hurts where I stunk it and my dream vanishes and I am standing in a dark, damp cellar before a...a...

 _HANS: "Oh, lord! A butcher's chopping block!"_

 _HEINRICH: "Go on, Hans! Finish!"_

 _HANS: *choke* There...there is a body on the block! It is...Herr Shotz! And this is no bayonet! This is a cleaver in my hand!"_

 _HEINRICH: "Corporal! I order you! Finish your assignment!"_

 _HANS: "I...I...have done a horrible, terrible thing! But...but how many other times have I done this? How many other times has he...he...? Ooooh, my head! My memory! It's coming back!"_

 _HEINRICH: "Hans! Go! Go upstairs!"_

 _HANS: "I remember now! Yes, yes! I was a butcher! A good butcher! Then, a soldier! I was a soldier and I killed a man in a shell-hole! There was an explosion! Every night I dreamed of that killing! Y-you! You made me do this fiendish work while I dreamed! Yes! Yes! You found out I was a butcher! Like no other shop in all of Germany, your's is full of meat! All of the visitors you have brought down here! Yes, of course! Your exclusive shop is filled with HUMAN MEAT!"_

 _HEINRICH: "No! NO!"_

He comes at me and everything goes black. It is suddenly cold and damp and he is the enemy soldier and I am sending my bayonet into his soft belly, crunching the bone, hearing the sucking sounds, stabbing, slashing, cutting him to ribbons. His face, his eyes, the blood pouring...pouring...

 _OFFICER #1: "Good lord!"_

 _OFFICER #2: *choke*_


	4. Blind Alleys

**Blind Alleys (Tales from the Crypt #46, Feb/March 1955)**

The "home" was old and paint-starved and drafty and badly in need of repair. The roof leaked and the windows rattled and were covered with years of dust and grime. The inmates of the home walked grim-faced and silent through cracked plaster halls or sat in dingy rooms on crawling beds. They shivered in the cold when the winter came, when there was no steam to warm the rusted radiators. And they sweltered in the heat when the summer burned, when long-broken fans lay idle and unrepaired and unable to waft a breath of cooling relief.

But they could not see the paint-peelied walls, the dirt-clouded windows, the dusty and cob-webbed halls of this, their home. These inmates, they could not see the roaches and the rats scampering across the unwashed floors as this was a "home" for the blind. For the wretched should who lives in worlds of darkness, who stared with unseeing eyes at the misery around them and yet knew and hated all of it. For the loss of one sense only tends to sharpen the others, to tune them more finely, to make them more acute. The inmates knew because they could taste and touch and smell and hear. They could taste the spoiled and rotted food placed before them at mealtimes. They could touch the sticky, filmy cobwebs, the dust layers covering everything. They could smell the foul odors of mildew and faulty plumbing and poor sanitation and neglect. They could hear the rats scampering and the roaches crawling and the termites burrowing and the lice and bed bugs and flies and a thousand other creatures of filth that moved.

And they could hear other creatures too. Other creatures of filth that moved. They could hear Mr. Grunwald, the home's director, in his office-apartment downstairs, entertaining his latest lady friend with the money he'd saved on them, the inmates.

 _WOMAN: "Gunner, please."_

 _GUNNER: "Come, now, honey! Don't you like Gunner?"_

They could hear his almost maniacal laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. They could smell the mouth-watering odors of the lavish supper he was enjoying and they could see, in their minds' eyes, the luxuries with which he'd selfishly surrounded himself at there expense.

 _GUNNER: "Here, beautiful. Have another drink."_

 _WOMAN: Mmm! This is more like it."_

Yes, Gunner Grunwald has indeed surrounded himself with luxuries, paid for with the allotments given to him for each blind inmate. Why paint and plaster dreary halls that they'd never see when he could have an air-conditioner for those blistering summer days? Why launder sheets and blankets and clothes of dirt-smears and sweat-stains that they'd never see when he could have a heater for those biting winter nights? Why give those poor miserable blind fools beauty if they could not appreciate beauty? Gunner Grunwald had felt that way. So he skimped on the inmates, cut corners here, denied there and with the surplus, he had supplied himself beauty. Fine furniture, good books, plush rugs, expensive drapes, an occasional evening of female companionship. They were all Gunner's to enjoy. He even bought a dog. A vicious dog. He had a good reason.

For Gunner had known that another sense had replaced the inmates' sense of sight. A deep-seeded sense growing each day. He had seen it in their webbed-blind eyes, in their silent grim faces. He had seen their growing hate. So he bought the dog for protection. And with the dog by his side, Gunner walked self-confidently before them, knowing that his sight and the dog's strength would keep him from harm. And so, he had been able to continue to enjoy his fiendish little amusements, like tripping helpless unsuspecting inmates as they totter blindly by him.

 _INMATE #1: "Oooph!"_

 _GUNNER: "Ha!"_

Or removed something that they'd come to know was there and counted on.

 _INMATE #2: "The bannister! Where's the ba-YAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!"_

 _GUNNER: "Heh, heh, heh!"_

Or adding something new.

 _INMATE #3: "Ow!"_

 _GUNNER: "Ha, ha, ha!"_

Or being just mean.

 _GUNNER: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"_

Yes, Gunner amused himself with his charges' inability to see. He had been sadistic with his tortures and he had grown fat on his denials. And his charges had sat in their world of darkness and waited...listening.

 _WOMAN: "Gunner, please! It's the dog. He makes me nervous. I'm afraid of dogs!"_

 _GUNNER: "Oh, I'm sorry, baby. Here, boy! Here!"_

...listening for their opportunity.

 _GUNNER: "You stay out there until Gunner is through."_

And tonight, their opportunity came.

INMATES: "Hungry, doggy? Nice, doggy! Here, doggy! Here's some meat!"

So they lured the dog down into the old, musty cellar of the home with some meat-scraps they had saved from their scant meals.

 _INMATE #4: "In here, boy! Come on!"_

 _INMATE #5: Quickly! Lock him up!"_

And then they waited. They waited for Gunner's friend of the evening to leave.

 _WOMAN: "Good night, Gunner. And thanks."_

 _GUNNER: "Thank you, my dear."_

They waited for Gunner to miss his dog.

 _GUNNER: "Brutus? Where are you? Brutus? Bru-?"_

And then they struck! Blindly, unseeing! They surrounded their hated enemy.

 _GUNNER: "What is it? What do you want? Go back to your rooms! All of you!"_

And dragged him to the cellar, too. To another waiting cubicle.

 _GUNNER: No, no! Please! Brutus, help me! Where are you?! BRUTUS!"_

But Gunner's only answer was the soft whine of the dog in the adjoining cubicle.

 _GUNNER: "Brutus! They've got you too!"_

Then they began to work. They dragged out old hammers and rusty nails and long-idle saws. And they went through the home and cut and ripped and chopped the lumber they needed. Gunner listened to the hammering echoing through the cellar. He listened to their giggles and chatter and he wondered.

 _GUNNER: "What are they up to? What are they making?"_

And he listened as the night passed and dawn came and the dog in the cubicle next door grew hungry and paced and growled and scratched as it's stomach gnawed.

 _GUNNER: "Feed Brutus, you fools! He'll get wild if you don't! He'll be dangerous!"_

 _INMATE #6: "We know, Mr. Grunwald."_

The day passed and the night came again. Gunner's own stomach ached with hunger. And still they hammered and sawed and laughed and talked.

 _GUNNER: "What are you making? What are you doing to do?"_

 _INMATE #6: "You'll see, Mr. Grunwald."_

The dog in the next cubicle howled all that night, slobbering and snarling and scratching. Gunner shuddered. The dog was a beast now. A hunger-crazed beast. And the hammering went on.

 _GUNNER: "Food! Give me some food, please!"_

 _INMATE #5: You call what you've been feeding us food, Mr. Grunwald?"_

Dawn came again and the second day passed. Next door, the dog was fighting with itself, throwing itself against the cubicle sides and howling madly.

 _GUNNER: "Brutus will kill anyone who sets foot in there now!"_

Gunner himself was half-crazed with hunger as the third night came. And then, towards midnight, the hammering stopped. The cellar was suddenly flooded with light. Even Brutus stopped snarling in anticipation.

 _GUNNER: "They're...they're opening my cubicle."_

They stood before him. Dirty, sweated, tired from long hours of labor. The inmates, the blind unseeing carpenters. Gunner blinked out at them.

 _INMATE #2: "Come, Mr Grunwald. You are free to go!"_

 _INMATE #7: "Follow us, Mr. Grunwald. We built this just for you. It leads to the cellar steps and freedom!"_

Gunner stood up as they darted off. He could hear their footsteps fade as they rounded corners and ran down long corridors that turned and twisted and doubled back. Gunner stared.

 _GUNNER: "They...they built a maze! A puzzle! I have to figure it out."_

And then Gunner saw the gleaming, glittering slivers of steel embedded in the maze walls.

 _GUNNER: "Razor blades! The walls are lined with razor blades! They want me to cut myself!"_

 _INMATES: "Hurry, Mr. Grunwald! Hurry!"_

Gunner laughed to himself as he started out of his cubicle.

 _GUNNER: "The fools! If I'm careful, if I take my time, I'll never have to touch the walls. Just walk slowly like this. Careful...careful..."_

A sound behind Gunner froze his blood. A snarl and a squeak of a door opening.

 _GUNNER: "BRUTUS! HUNGER-CRAZED BRUTUS! THE FREED HIM TOO!"_

Gunner began to run. He had to reach freedom before that starved dog caught him! He ran down the twisting maze corridors, the sound of the loping snarling dog behind him.

GUNNER: "Oh, lord! Oh, lord!"

He brushed against the razor blades, slashing his flesh. He stumbled and got up, ran on, frightened, wild. Down through the twisting, doubling-back maze corridors with the razor-lined walls and the slobbering hound close behind.

And then some idiot turned out the lights.


	5. And All Through the House

**And All Through the House (The Vault of Horror #35, Feb/March 1954)**

Her husband was dead and it was the best Christmas present she ever had. She stood over the lifeless body sprawled at her feet and smiled.

 _MOTHER: "Ha, ha! Merry Christmas, Joseph. You're sleeping so peacefully. Dreaming of Santa Claus?"_

She lingered, thinking of the months of planning that had culminated in one swift blow with a poker. From upstairs, she heard a child's cries.

 _MOTHER: "Carol! She's awake!"_

She hurried upstairs, opened the door to a small bedroom.

 _MOTHER: "Carol? What's the matter, dear?"_

 _CAROL: "Did Santa Claus come yet, mommy? Did he?"_

 _MOTHER: "No, dear, not yet. It's not time. So you go back to sleep."_

 _CAROL: "Can I see him, mommy? Can I see him when he comes?"_

 _MOTHER: "I'll see, dear? Now you be a good little girl and go right to sleep or Santa won't come at all! Alright?"_

 _CAROL: "Alright, mommy! Good night."_

She remained until her daughter was sleeping again, then returned downstairs. She stepped over her husband's body, moved to the table. Casually, she lit a cigarette and inhaled.

 _MOTHER: You were such a mouse, Joseph. You'll never know how wonderful it is to be free of you at last."_

There was no hurry. She had planned too long and too well. There were no neighbors within miles and she had all night to dispose of the body. She thought of the insurance, drifted across the room and turned on the radio. The music floated through the room. Christmas carols! She hummed softly and looked again at the corpse. The stained poker lay nearby. She picked up the poker, fondled it, cleaned it, set it in it's place by this fire.

 _MOTHER: "~Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way!~"_

She turned and gazed at the gaily decorated Christmas tree and the presents beneath it.

 _MOTHER: "Tsk, tsk. Now I'll never know whether or not Joseph would have like that tie I bought for him. Oh, well."_

Abruptly, the mantel clock chimed the hour. It was time.

MOTHER: "Oh! It's 11! Time to get rid of Joseph! And Carol will be alright until I get back."

She crossed the room to turn off the radio then stopped, listening.

 _RADIO ANNOUNCER: "Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin! We have just received a report from the Worldwide News Bureau that a homicidal maniac has escaped from the State Hospital for the Insane! He has brutally murdered four women and all citizens are warned to remain off the streets! This man is extremely dangerous! We repeat, he is extremely dangerous! Another report had just been handed to me! Here is a description of the escaped maniac! He is 6 feet, 3 inches tall, 210 pounds, has dark eyes and shaggy black hair! It is reported that he is now wearing a Santa Claus costume which he had taken from a man in the village of Pleasantville!"_

 _MOTHER: "_ _Pleasantville?! My god! That's just south of here!"_

 _RADIO ANNOUNCER: "He is believed to be headed north! Police officials state that he will not harm children and will only injure men if he is provoked! It is said that he is obsessed with the killing of women! All four women he already had been attacked and viciously disfigured!_

 _MOTHER: "Oh, my lord!"_

 _RADIO ANNOUNCER: "All women are warned to remain indoors! This man is extremely dangerous! Further bulletins will be brought to you as soon as they are received! Stay tuned now for-!"_ Click!

 _MOTHER: "My god! I can't take a chance on leaving now! Yet, I have to get rid of Joseph's body! I hadn't figured on anything like this! Still, Carols will be okay if I leave her. The radio said that he won't harm children! And I have to get rid of Joseph! I'll go!"_

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

She tiptoed quietly to the window and peered through. In the darkness, she could discern the red costume, the white fur trim...

 _MOTHER: "Oh, god! Oh, good god! IT'S HIM!"_

In a fit of sudden panic, she rushed to the telephone and snatched up the receiver to call the police. She stopped and an icy fear clutched her heart.

 _MOTHER: "I..I can't call the police! They'll find Joseph's body! Oh, good heavens! What will I do?"_

Slowly, she lowered the receiver. She stared at the body, at the the door and the house was quiet as death.

 _MOTHER: "Maybe he'll go away! But I'd...I'd better put Joseph's body in the closet. If Carol woke up..."_

The front doorknob rattled loudly. She moved away from the corpse to the door.

 _MOTHER: "He's trying to get in! He isn't going to go away! He wants me!"_

In the silence, she heard him stomp from the porch. From within, she followed the footsteps crunching the snow.

 _MOTHER: "He's going around the side of the house! He's going to the backdoor!"_

Madly, she raced through the house to the back door. She locked and bolted it nervously.

 _MOTHER: "There!"_

She heard his steps clumping onto the back porch and she stood away from the door, fearfully watching the knob as it was turned and rattled. Again, she listened in terror as the footsteps left the porch and moved through the snow.

 _MOTHER: "The windows! He'll try the windows!"_

Frantically, she rushed from window to window, making certain they were all locked, all the blinds lowered. The radio announcement thundered in her mind. She shuddered convulsively.

 _MOTHER: "I've got to hurry! I've got to hurry! One of them may be unlocked!"_

While locking all the windows, she noticed Joseph on the floor. A strange expression flicked across her face. For a moment, she seemed bewildered.

 _MOTHER: "Joseph, heavens! I've got to get him out of sight! If Carol ever woke up and came downstairs!"_

She started dragged the body across the floor to the closet, then stopped and looked at the front door and then at the windows. She dropped the body.

 _MOTHER: "The windows! I've locked all the windows! But he could break them! He'll come inside and kill me!"_

She hurried down to the cellar, stumbling and almost falling in the dim light. She swished her hand across her forehead, wiped away the drops of perspiration. There was lumber in the cellar. Joseph was always buying and picking up the pieces of lumber and silently, she thanked him. She gathered as many boards as she could, grabbed a hammer and a handful of nails. Loaded with her burden, she clumsily climbed the stairs and entered the living room. She saw the body.

 _MOTHER: "Oh, I still haven't put him away in the closet! If Carol ever saw...!"_

She put down the boards, the hammer, the nail and now, trembling, she lifted Joseph and began once more to drag him to the closet. She stopped, suddenly remember the breakable windows and the fiend somewhere outside. She dropped the body, picked up the lumber, the nails, the hammer and started boarding the windows. From the rear of the house, she heard a pounding on the back door and she dropped the hammer and dropped the nails and snatched up the phone to call for help. Then she remembered the body. She let the phone slip from her grasp and tumble into it's cradle and she picked up the hammer and the lumber and all the little nails and finished boarding up the windows. She finished the windows and wondered what the maniac was doing and remembered the dead body and went back to dragged it into the closet.

She went over all the windows again, checking to see if they were all boarded up and made sure the body was in the closet and went down to the cellar to check the cellar door. The cellar door was locked and she ran upstairs and checked the windows and made sure the body was in the closet and raced up to the attic to make sure it was all closed up. And after she checked the attack, she checked the locks on all of the windows on the second floor and thought of the fiend and all the insurance and went to her daughter's room.

 _MOTHER: "Carol? Carol? My god, she's gone!"_

The room was empty and she tore the bedclothes from the empty bed and slammed the door of the empty closet and checked the lock on the empty room's window.

 _MOTHER: "It's locked! She's still here! She's still in the house. Carol? Carol! Where are you?!"_

 _CAROL: "Here I am, mommy! Here I am! Downstairs!"_

She rushed head long from the empty room, clattered frantically down the stairs and stopped.

 _CAROL: "Look, mommy! Look! Santa Claus is here! I let him in!"_


	6. The October Game

**The October Game (Shock Suspenstories #9, June/July 1953)**

Mitch put the gun back into the bureau drawer.

 _MITCH: "No, not that way. Louise wouldn't suffer that way. She would be dead and it would be over and she wouldn't suffer. It's very important that this thing have, above all, duration. Duration through imagination. How can I prolong her suffering? How, first of all, can I bring it about? Well..."_

The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his cuff links together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by swiftly on the street below, outside his warm two-story house. Like so many gray mice, the children. Like so many leaves. By the sound of the children, you knew the calendar sat. By their screams, you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the year. October. The last day of October with white bone masks and cut pumpkins and the smell of dropped candle fat.

No. Things hadn't been right for some time. October didn't help any. If anything, it made things worse. He nodded slowly at his image in the mirror, adjusting his black bow-tie.

 _MITCH: "If...if this were spring, then there might be a chance. But tonight, all the world is burning down into ruin. There's no green of spring, none of the freshness, none of the promise."_

Mitch had never liked October. Ever since he first lay in the autumn leaves before his grandmother's house many years ago and heard the wind and saw the empty trees, it had made him cry without a reason.

 _MITCH: "*sob*...*sob*"_

And a little of that sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with the spring. But it was different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years. There would be no spring. He had been crying quietly all evening. It didn't show on his face. It was all somewhere hidden. But it wouldn't stop.

 _MARION: "Daddy?"_

 _MITCH: "Marion?"_

There was a soft running in the hall. It was Marion, his little one. All eight quiet years of her. Never a word. Just her luminous gray eyes and her wondering little mouth. Marion had been in and out all evening, trying on various masks, asking him which was most terrifying, most horrible. They had both finally decided.

 _MITCH: "The skeleton mask, dear. It'll scare the beans from people."_

 _MARION: "Isn't it just awful, daddy? I like it, too!"_

As he finished his bow-tie and put on his dark coat, Marion appeared in the door, all skeletonous in her disguise.

 _MARION: "How do I look, daddy?"_

 _MITCH: "Fine!"_

From under the mask, blonde hair showed. From the skull sockets, small blue eyes smiled. Mitch sighed. Marion and Louise, the two silent denouncers of his virility, his dark power.

 _MARION: "Coming down, daddy?"_

 _MITCH: "In a moment."_

What alchemy had there been in Louise that took the dark of a dark man and bleached and bleached the dark brown eyes and black hair and washed and bleached the ingrown baby all during the period before birth until the child was born, Marion, blonde, blue eyes, ruddy-cheeked?

 _LOUISE: "It's a girl, Mitch. A blonde, blue-eyed girl."_

 _MITCH: "Oh..."_

Sometimes he suspected that Louise had conceived the child as an idea, completely asexual, a conception of contemptuous mind and cell. As a firm rebuke to him, she had produced a child in her own image. Her eyes, that day in the hospital, were cold. They said...

 _LOUISE: "I have a blonde daughter, Mitch. Look!"_

Louise had never wanted a child. She had been frightened of the idea of birth. He forced the child into her. It had been very easy for Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a son that he'd give his only wife over to a mortuary. When Mitch had put out a hand to touch, the mother had turned away to conspire with her new pink daughter-child, away from the dark forcing murderer.

 _LOUISE: "No! Don't touch her!"_

 _MITCH: "Louise, I..."_

And it had all been so beautifully ironic. His selfishness deserved it. The doctor had shaken his head and said...

 _DOCTOR: "Sorry, Mr. Wilder, your wife will never have another child. This was the last one."_

 _MITCH: "And I wanted a boy!"_

Now it was October again. There had been other Octobers. He had thought of the long winters, year after year, the endless months mortared into the house by an insane fall of snow, trapped with a woman and child, neither of whom loved him. During the eight years, there had been respites. In spring and summer, he got out, walked, went to ball games. There were desperate solutions to the desperate problem of a hated man. But in winter, the hikes and games and escapes fell away with the leaves. Life, like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run to earth. And now, the eight winter coming, he knew things were finally at an end. He simply could not wear this one through.

 _MARION: "Ooh, the bell! They're here!"_

There was an acid walled off in him that had slowly eaten through tissue and tissue over the years. And now, tonight, it would reach the wild explosive in him and all would be over. Downstairs, there were shouts and hilarity. Marion, greeting the first arrivals. Louise, taking parents' coats. A rich syrupy smell of candy filled the bustling house. Louise had laid out apples in new skins of caramel. There were vast bowls of punch fresh-mixed, stringed apples in each doorway, scooped, vented pumpkins peering triangularly and a waiting tub of water in the center of the living room waiting with a sack of apples nearby for the bobbling to begin. Mitch walked toward the stairs. He hesitated.

 _MITCH: "Why don't I just pack a suitcase and leave? No, not without hurting Louise as much as she's hurt me. Divorce wouldn't hurt her at all. No, I must hurt her. Figure some way to take Marion away from her legally. Yes. That's it! That would hurt most of all. To take Marion away."_

He descended the stairs. Louise didn't look up. The children shouted and waved as he came down.

 _MITCH: "Hello, down there!"_

 _CHILDREN: "Hi, Mr. Wilder! Hi!"_

By 10:00, the doorbell stopped ringing. The apples were bitten from stringed doors, the pink child faces were wiped dry from apple bobbling, napkins were smeared with caramel and punch and he, the husband, had taken over. He took the party right out of Louise's hands. He ran about, talking to the twenty children and the twelve parents, who were happy with the special spiked cider he fixed them. He supervised pin the tail on the donkey, spin the bottle, musical chairs and all the rest, midst fits of shouting laughter. Then, in the triangular-eyed pumpkin shine, all houses lights out, he cried...

 _MITCH: "Hush! Follow me!"_

He tiptoed toward the cellar. The parents commented to each other, nodding at the clever husband, speaking to the lucky wife.

 _MOTHER: "How well he gets on with the children?"_

 _LOUISE: "Yes."_

 _MITCH: "The cellar! The tomb of the witch!"_

The children crowed after the husband, squealing. He made a mock shiver.

 _MITCH: "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!"_

The parents chuckled. One by one, the children slid down a slide, which Mitch had fixed up from table sections, into the dark cellar. He hissed and shouted ghastly utterances after them. A wonderful wailing filled the dark pumpkin-lighted house. Everybody talked at once. Everybody, except Marion. She had gone through the party with a minimum of sound. It was all inside her, all of the excitement and joy.

 _CHILDREN: "Weeeee! Golly, it's dark!"_

 _MITCH: "Hurry!"_

Now, the parents. With laughing reluctance, they slid down the incline, uproarious, while Marion stood by, always wanting to see it all, to be the last. Louise went down without Mitch's help. Marion stood by the slide. Mitch picked her up.

 _MITCH: "Here we go."_

They sat in a vast circle in the cellar. Warmth came from the distant bulk of the furnace. The chairs stood in a long line down each all, twenty squealing children, twelve rustling relatives, alternatively spaced. They had all groped to their chairs in the blackness, the entire program from here on was to be enacted in the dark, he as Mr. Interlocutor.

 _MITCH: "Now, quiet!"_

There was a smell of damp cement and the sound of the wind out in the October stars. Everyone settled. The room was black black. Not a light, not a glint of an eye. There was a scraping of crockery, a metal rattle. The husband intoned...

 _MITCH: "The witch id dead!"_

 _CHILDREN: "Tee-hee!"_

 _MITCH: "The witch is dead! She has been killed and here is the knife she was killed with."_

He handed over the knife. It was passed from hand to hand, down and around the circle, with chuckles and little odd cries and comments from the adults.

 _MITCH: "The witch is dead and this is her head!"_

...whispered the husband and handed an item to the nearest person. Some little child cried happily in the dark.

 _BOY: "Oh, I know how this game is played. He gets some old chicken innards and he hands them around saying 'these are her innards!' and he makes clay head and passes it for her head and he passes a soup bone for her arm and he takes a marble and says, "this is her eye!' and some corn for her teeth and a sack of plumb pudding and gives that and says, 'this is her stomach!'. I know how this is played!"_

 _PARENT: "Hush, you'll spoil everything!"_

Mitch said...

 _MITCH: "The witch came to harm and this is her arm."_

 _CHILDREN: "Tee-hee!"_

The items were passed and passed, like hot potatoes, around the circle. Some children screams, wouldn't touch them. Some ran from their chairs to stand in the center of the cellar until the grisly items had passed. One boy scoffed..

 _BOY: "Aw, it's only chicken insides. Come back, Helen!"_

Shot from hand to hand with small scream after scream, the items went down the line, down, down to be followed be another and another. The husband said...

 _MITCH: "The witch is cut apart and this is her heart!"_

Six or seven items moving at once through the laughing, trembling dark. Louise spoke up.

 _LOUISE: "Marion, don't be afraid. It's only play."_

Marion didn't speak. Louise asked...

 _LOUISE: "Marion? Are you afraid?"_

 _MITCH: "She's alright. She's not afraid."_

...said the husband. Marion didn't say anything. On and on the passing, the screams, the hilarity. The autumn wind sighed about the house. And he, the husband, stood in the dark cellar, intoning the words, handing out the items. Louise's voice came again from far across the cellar.

 _LOUISE: "Marion?"_

Everybody was talking.

 _LOUISE: "Marion, answer me! Are you afraid?"_

Everybody quieted. Marion didn't answer. The husband stood there at the head of the dark, cellar. Louise called...

 _LOUISE: "Marion, are you there?!"_

No answer. The room was silent.

 _PARENTS: "Where's Marion? Maybe she's upstairs?"_

 _LOUISE: "Marion!"_

No answer. It was quiet. Louise cried out...

 _LOUISE: "MARION! MARION!"_

 _PARENTS: "Turn on the lights!"_

The items stopped passing. The children and adults sat with the witches' items in their hands. There was scraping of a chair, wildly, in the dark. Louise gasped...

 _LOUISE: "No. No, don't turn on the lights! Don't turn on the lights! Oh god, god, god! Don't turn them on! Please, please, don't turn on the lights! DON'T!"_

Louise was shrieking now. The entire cellar froze with the scream. Nobody moved. Everybody sat suspended in the sudden frozen task of this October game. The wind blew outside banging the house. The smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with the smell of the objects in their fingers while one boy cried...

 _BOY: "I'll go upstairs and look!"_

And he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house four times. Around the house calling...

 _BOY: "Marion? Marion? MARION?!"_

And at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting, breathing cellar and saying to the darkness...

 _BOY: "I can't find her!"_

Then some idiot turned on the lights.


	7. Dead Wait

**Dead Wait (The Vault of Horror #23, Feb/March 1952)**

The tropic night hung over the island like a wet blanket, hot and oppressive. From out across the black Pacific, a faint breeze stirred, moving lazily through the towering cocoanut palms. The plantation house lay silent beneath the starry night. Suddenly, two shots rang out.

 _BLLAAAAAAM! BLLAAAAAAAM!_

'Red' Buckley stood over the prostrate body of his former boss, the plantation over, Emil Duval. A tiny wisp of smoke drifted upward from the black muzzle of the automatic that 'Red' held firmly in his hand, still pointed at the dead French planter.

 _RED: "That takes care of you, Duval! Now for the pearl."_

Behind the read-headed murderer, a small coal-black native cringed in the shadows watching with wide eyes. Buckley stepped over Duval's body and moved to a small safe in the wall of the plantation house.

 _RED: "Now! Right, 10, left to 6, right again to 10..."_

The door of the safe opened and 'Red' reached in.

 _RED: "Four years I've waited! Four years and now it's mine!"_

'Red' held the velvet-black sphere up so that the light from the kerosene lamp danced over it's gleaming surface.

 _RED: "Finally, the Black Pearl is mine! Look at it, Kulu! There is no pearl in the whole world like this one!"_

The cowering native stared at the pearl from his hiding place in the shadows. The whites of his eyes shone brightly, reflecting the glow of the flickering lamp.

 _RED: "What are you frightened of, Kulu? Duval is dead? Stop cringing like a frightened monkey! Come out of there. Here, look at it. My Black Pearl!"_

The native shuffled forward; his eyes glued to the small black sphere that 'Red' held between his fingers. He studied it for a moment, then exclaimed...

 _KULU: "Come, Missah Buckley! We go now! Boat ready! We go! Hurry, hurry!"_

 _RED: "Yeah, Kulu. Let's go. My business here is finished."_

'Red' took a last look at the dead planter, spat and followed the native out the door. The two figures moved silently down the beach where a native outrigger canoe was pulled up to the white sand.

 _RED: "Got enough food and water, Kulu?"_

 _KULU: "Yessa, missah! Got plenty."_

Buckley climbed into the outrigger and Kulu shoved off into the oncoming surf.

 _RED: "Well, Kulu, in three days, we'll be in Banggai and I'll be catchin' that steamer, eh?"_

 _KULU: "Three days! Yessa, Missah Buckley."_

As the outrigger skimmed over there crests of the incoming breakers, 'Red' watched the flickering lights of the plantation house fade into the night. It has been four years that he had first seen the lights of the plantation shining through the mist.

 _DUVAL: "There she is, Mr. Buckley! That's my plantation."_

 _RED: "Looks okay, Mr. Duval."_

Red waited three months in Banggai for Duval to show up. He spent almost a year tracing the fabulous Black Pearl to this French planter.

 _RED: "You sure he'll be here? It's been almost three months."_

 _SEA CAPTAIN: "I'm telling yah, Mr. Buckley. Duval comes down here from his island to buy provisions regularly. I don't understand why he ain't been here-Oh! Oh! There he comes now!"_

Red approached the jovial-looking Frenchman and introduced himself.

 _DUVAL: Zo, Monsieur Buckley! And what can I do for you?"_

 _RED: "I'd like a job, Mr. Buckley. I'll do anything."_

Duval had been thrilled at having another white man on the island with him. He jumped at the chance.

 _RED: "Chess, Duval? Oh, yeah. I play a fair game."_

 _DUVAL: "You're hired, monsieur!"_

Duval's plantation was located on one of the many islands that made up the group known as the Soelas. The plantation itself was worked by natives of the surrounding islands.

 _DUVAL: "It ees good to have a white man on Matuah again."_

 _RED: "It's good to be here, Duval."_

Duval had been sick with some tropical disease. That was why he had been detained getting down to Banggai. And that was why he hired Red. The fever left him weak. Red could take over the physical work of running the plantation for him.

 _DUVAL: "You've got to be tough on these natives, monsieur. They are lazy."_

 _RED: "Don't worry, Duval. I'll make 'em toe the line."_

Duval and Buckley had become quite friendly in the year that followed. Finally, one night, Red worked the conversation around to precious gems.

 _RED: "Give me an emerald any time, Duval. That's really beauty."_

 _DUVAL: "No, monsieur! You have not seen real beauty until you have seen a black pearl."_

 _RED: "Black Pearl, Duval? You've seen one?"_

 _DUVAL: "Oui, monsieur. I have seen one."_

Buckley tried to pump Duval, but the old Frenchman clammed up. That was all he would say about the Black Pearl Red was sure he owned. Then one night...

 _RED: "Who's out there? Come out of those bushes of I'll shoot!"_

 _KULU: "No shoot, missah!"_

That had been Kulu. He had been hanging around Buckley's bungalow.

 _RED: "What were you doing out there?"_

 _KULU: "Mean no harm, mishap! Wanna be houseboy, servant, anything to you, missah!"_

Kulu pleaded with Red to let him stay. He wanted to be Red's servant. Red had finally given in.

 _RED: "Okay, Kulu. You can stay. But keep out of my hair, see?"_

 _KULU: "Yahsah, missah! Yahsah!"_

It was after two years of hard work that Red had finally worked himself into Duval's confidence. One night the old Frenchman gave out...

 _DUVAL: "You asked me once eef I ever saw a Black Pearl, monsieur? You remember?"_

 _RED: "Yeah, Duval! I remember!"_

 _DUVAL: "Well, monsieur. Not only have I seen one, I own one."_

 _RED: "You do? Where? Let me see it!"_

 _DUVAL: "Oh, no, monsieur. The pearl is worth a fortune. We are two men alone on thees island. It would be foolish for me to tell you where I keep it. Not that I don't trust you."_

 _RED: "Oh, yeah! I don't blame you, Duval. I'd do the same thing. Forget it."_

Another year had gone by before Red had finally found out.

 _DUVAL: "See that picture there on the wall, monsieur?"_

 _RED: "Yeah?"_

 _DUVAL: "Behind it is a safe. That is where I keep the Black Pearl!"_

 _RED: "Gee, Duval! I'd really like to see it."_

 _DUVAL: "No, monsieur. Temptation is great-"_

 _RED: "Tell you what, Duval. You hold a gun on me all the while. Then I won't try anything."_

Duval had fallen for it. He had gone to the safe, loaded gun in hand and taken out the Black Pearl.

 _RED: "It's beautiful, Duval! Looks like it's worth a fortune."_

 _DUVAL: "At least a quarter of a million, monsieur."_

But Red had gotten the information he wanted. He memorized the combination of the safe. Now, all that was left was to make arrangements for a getaway.

 _RED: "What would I do, Kulu, if I wanted to get away from this place and get to Banggai?"_

 _KULU: "Take Missah Duval's motor launch, Missuh Buckley. Thas how he go alla time."_

 _RED: "No, Kulu! I mean if I wanted to get to Bangui secretly without attracting attention."_

 _KULU: "I could take you there in native canoe, missah! Trip long. Three days maybe."_

Everything was set. Red waited for the annual steamer to come to Banggai. Then, four days before...

 _RED: "Get that outrigger, Kulu. We'll need it tonight."_

 _KULU: "Yessah, missah."_

And now it was over. Red had the Black Pearl and Kulu was paddling him toward Banggai. The lights of Duval's plantation were gone now.

 _RED: "Look at it, Kulu! There's no pearl in the world like this one. And I worked long, too. Four years to get it!"_

Kulu remained silent. He stared out over the vast expanse of water as Red raved on.

 _RED: "I don't know what you hung around as long as you did, Kulu. I treated you pretty rough."_

Kulu did not answer. Up ahead, dancing lights pin-pointed the gloom.

 _RED: "S'matter, Kulu? You sore at me? Don't worry. I'll pay you off in Banggai. I'll take good care of you. I'll..."_

Faintly, but growing ever steadily louder, the throb of drums drifted across the tossing black expanse.

 _RED: "What's that, Kulu? Drums! Native drums! We're headed toward them! Kulu? Where are you taking me?"_

The island loomed up before them. The fires lit up the beach, illuminating the gleaming, dancing figures. Buckley spun around. Kulu stood over him. The machete in his hand reflecting the fire light.

 _RED: "Kulu! My god! What are you going to do!"_

 _KULU: "I wait long time too, Missah Buckley!"_

The gleaming steel blade came down with lightening speed, severing 'Red' Buckley's head from his shoulders, cutting short his blood-curdling shriek.

 _RED: "YAAAAAA-!"_

Thok!

The grinning natives gathered around Kulu as he held the head with the red hair high for all of them to see. And as they ogled at it, he bragged (in his native tongue)...

 _KULU: "Three years I wait and now, it is mine! There is no head in all the Soelas like this one!"_


	8. Shadow of Death

**Shadow of Death (Tales from the Crypt #39, December/January 1954)**

Come with me to a lonely corner in the downtown business section of a large city. Overhead, the last fading star is finally retreating before the advancing light of dawn and the sleeping city is awakening to the sounds of jangling alarm clocks. But long before the city's office workers and busy housewives have risen from their warm beds, Ezra Morton has been on the job. There he is now, unlocking his little newsstand and swinging wide it's doors. Notice how Ezra labors, wincing in pain. Yes, dear reader, Ezra is an invalid, a crippled newsdealer. Ezra Morton is paralyzed from the waist down. Notice the bundles of morning newspapers stacked on the curb beside Ezra's newsstand, ready to be untied and laid out neatly on display. See how Ezra struggles, bending in his wheelchair and lifting the heavy packages.

Now see the dark and deserted subway kiosk nearby, into which, in a few minutes, the office-bound secretaries and the factory-bound laborers will begin to pour, armed with the newspapers they have purchased from Ezra's stand. Now, Ezra is ready for them. For the parade of humanity to rush by his stand and toss it's copper pennies upon his paperweights and eat away at the stacks until only a few last battered copies remain. See how he smiles. Yes, dear reader. Ezra smiles. He smiles because he is content. For this is his life. All that matters to him. This little newsstand with it's few hundred daily paper sales is Ezra's castle. It's meager profit is the line drawn between independence and starvation for him. So Ezra smiles. But Ezra does not smile for long. Suddenly, Ezra catches sight of a figure standing near the subway kiosk.

 _EZRA: "Hey!"_

A man clutching a stack of newspapers under his huge arm.

 _EZRA: "Hey, you! This is my spot. How about it?! Find your own spot!"_

 _MAN: "This is a free country, buster! I'll stand where I like!"_

And now the people are beginning to hurry from all directions toward the subway entrance. And the big man with the papers under his arms hurries to meet them on strong legs that are not withered and paralyzed as Ezra's are.

 _MAN: "Paper, lady! Paper, mister! What'd ya read?"_

Yes, Ezra does not smile. Fear grips Ezra's helpless body. That man, that man with the papers and the healthy legs is stealing paper sales that ordinarily would be Ezra's.

 _MAN: "Paper, lady! Paper, mister! Here's your change!"_

 _EZRA: "Paper! Get your paper here!"_

Ezra begins to do what he has never done before. He calls out, trying to attract attention, calling for sales, imploring, reminding the mass of humanity with healthy legs that it has always bought it's papers from him.

 _EZRA: "Papers! Morning papers! Get them here!"_

 _MAN: "Mornin'! Paper, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!"_

But the sleepy-eyed people are blind. In their rush to catch their trains, they do not notice that they are buying their morning papers from someone new.

 _EZRA: "Please! I've had this corner for eight years! Those are my customers you're stealing! Please find your own corner!"_

 _MAN: "Do me somethin', gimpy! G'ahead! Paper! Morning paper!"_

And now, the morning rush hour is almost over. Ezra's paper stacks stand high and hardly touched. The man with the healthy legs waves to Ezra.

 _MAN: "All sold out, gimpy! S'long! See you tomorrow!"_

The man moves off. Ezra stares at the unsold papers piled upon his newsstand counter.

 _EZRA: "*choke* I'll...I'll never be able to sell these now."_

All day long, Ezra sits in his wheelchair trying to sell his papers to the few who straggle by his stand.

 _EZRA: "Paper! Get your paper!"_

Finally, darkness begins to fall. Sadly, Ezra ties his unsold papers into bundles and deposits them on the curb for the trucks to pick up when they deliver the next day's edition.

 _EZRA: "*sob*...*sob*"_

The next morning, the man is there again, hurrying about on his strong legs selling his papers to the unaware parade, while Ezra cries in vain.

 _EZRA: "Get your paper here!"_

 _MAN: "Mornin' paper, lady! Thank you."_

The days pass. Every morning, the man is there, stealing sales from Ezra. And every night, Ezra counts his unsold papers and ties them into bundles.

 _EZRA: "I'll...I'll never make enough to live on this way!"_

A week goes by. Two. One morning, a truckman who delivers Ezra's papers warns him...

 _TRUCKMAN: "If you can't sell more papers than this, Ezra, we'll cut you out of our delivery route."_

 _EZRA: "I'll...I'll try. I'll do anything."_

But what can Ezra do? What can a cripple do to a man with a healthy strong body? The trackman leaves. Ezra sits with his head in his hands.

 _EZRA: "If...if I weren't paralyzed...if I weren't crippled and helpless, if I were strong, I'd show him! I'd...*sob*"_

Above, the sky is just beginning to grow light. The glow from a nearby streetlamp casts Ezra's shadow up against his newsstand.

 _EZRA: "I'd...I'd...*sob*...*sob*..."_

Suddenly, Ezra's shadow lifts it's head from it's hands. It rises from it's wheelchair, wavering. It glides off down the deserted street on unsteady legs. It slides across brick walls, board fences, hesitates before a hardware store. It reaches in, plucking the shadow of an axe hanging in the window, lifting away the shadow of the shovel standing among the garden tools, back across board fences, back across brick walls to a familiar corner where a familiar shadow stands with the shadow of a huge bundle of papers under it's arms. Ezra's shadow lifts the shadow of the axe it had stolen and brings it down upon the familiar shadow with the papers under it's arms. The shadows of the papers scatter across the building wall as the figure crumples, spurting a shadow-fountain from it's wound. Ezra's shadow peers at it. The crumpled shadow stirs. Ezra's shadow lifts the axe shadow once more.

Now Ezra's shadow drags the lifeless shadow down the alley between the buildings, depositing it in an empty lot beside a faded billboard. With the shadow-shovel, Ezra's shadow digs a shallow shadow-grave beside the billboard and pushes the lifeless shadow in and shovels the shadow-soil in upon it. Then, Ezra's shadow returns to the newsstand where Ezra still sits with his head in his hands.

 _EZRA: "That's...*sob*...that's what I'd do."_

And Ezra's shadow assumes Ezra's position as Ezra hears...

 _CIVILIAN: "Hey! This guy's dead!"_

 _EZRA: "Huh?"_

Ezra rolls his wheelchair to the crumpled form of the big man with the healthy legs lying among his scattered papers.

 _EZRA: "What happened?"_

 _CIVILIAN: "Heart attack looks like!"_

Later, the morgue wagon attendants lift the body of the man who almost stole Ezra's business from him. As they carry it to the waiting truck, Ezra gasps...

 _EZRA: "Good lord!"_

For, although the morning sun is shining brightly, the dead man's body casts no shadow.


	9. Tatter Up

**Tatter Up (Tales from the Crypt #46, Feb/March 1955)**

Me? I'm Tony Barrett. I'm not a bad-looking guy. I'm young, too. Thirty hour. Okay, so how come I could sit around on a rot-reeking couch, holding hands with a snaggle-toothed hag named Fanny Ogden? How come I could stand the mildew-yellowed wall papers, the cracked ceilings, the whole house stinking like the inside of a dug-up coffin and the stink of Fanny herself? Yeah, that's right! You got the picture. Fanny Ogden was supposed to be loaded!

 _TONY: "I...I've been meaning to ask you, Fanny. I just don't know how. I've been meaning to ask you if you'll marry me."_

 _FANNY: "Oh, Tony! I've been praying you'd ask me. Dreaming of it. But never really believing you would. Oh, yes, Tony! Yes! I will marry you!"_

Sure, I wanted that woebegone witch for a wife. I wanted to marry the hundred grand fortune I'd heard about. The dough her first husband left her. The miserable miser was supposed to have every last sent of it hid here in that foul-smelling filthy house.

 _TONY: "Then I guess...*gag*...this calls for a kiss."_

 _FANNY: "It's been so long since I've been kissed, Tony!"_

Well, I'll skip the disgusting details except to say that Fanny became Mrs. Tony Barrett and I started hitting the bottle to brace myself against living with her.

 _FANNY: "Aren't you coming up, Honey-Bun? It's late."_

 _TONY: "You go ahead, Fanny. I'll be up in an hour or so. Don't wait up."_

Trouble with drinking was it used to get me down. I'd worry. I'd worry real bad.

 _TONY: "Maybe there ain't no dough. Maybe I got a bum steer from the guy that told me."_

After the first two weeks, I got real disgusted. There was no hint of the dough.

 _TONY: "I'm beginning to think I've been a sucker saddling myself with a dried-up, withered excuse for a female. I'll wake up one day and find out there ain't no hundred G's. Well, in a pig's eye, I will!"_

So I went up into the bedroom where Fanny sat with that straggly mop of hers up in curlers. But I didn't look at Fanny twice. I headed for the closet, for my suitcase.

 _FANNY: "Tony? Is there something wrong?"_

 _TONY: "Yeah, baby? You and me! I'm clearing out!"_

I bounced my suitcase onto the bed and tossed my clothes into it. My bride jumped up like a bee stung her and she threw her boney arms around me.

 _FANNY: "Tony, please! Don't leave me! Please don't!"_

 _TONY: "We made a mistake. Forget me, Fanny."_

 _FANNY: "Tony, I know I'm ugly, ugly and old. But I'm rich. I never told you, did I? I've got a lot of money. And I love you, Tony. As much as I can. You're handsome and young. I have just a few years left. Stay with me and make them happy years, dear. And when I'm gone, all that money will be yours."_

 _TONY: "Okay, baby. Okay. You talked me into it."_

Well, it turned out there was money after all. The guy was right. So I did my best to make Fanny happy. I stayed. But I wondered what she lived on if she never spent any of her dough. And one day, I found out...

 _RAGMAN: "Is Mrs. Ogden at ho-?"_

 _TONY: "You! The guy I met! The guy that told me about her!"_

 _RAGMAN: "I'm a ragman. Mrs. Ogden always sells me her old rags."_

 _TONY: "Mrs. Ogden is Mrs. Barrett now, mister. My wife! Don't you remember me? You told me about her."_

 _RAGMAN: "You have a nice wife, sir. She's very good to me. She always has rags to sell me. I'm a ragman."_

 _TONY: "Maybe I'm wrong, but I could swear it was you I met that night."_

But at that minute, Fanny trundled down the stairs with a load of old rags. Men's suits, women's dresses, kid's clothes. The ragman grinned like an idiot when he saw them.

 _RAGMAN: "Fine, Mrs. Barrett. Very fine. You get seven dollars for these."_

 _TONY: "Seven dollars for that old garbage?! Wow!"_

The old creep stopped cold and gave me a fishy stare, like I had insulted him. Fanny tried to cover up.

 _FANNY: "Tony didn't mean anything. He just doesn't understand."_

 _TONY: "Yeah, Mac. No hard feelings. If you want to overpay, it's your business."_

 _RAGMAN: "Your wife has been good to me and I try to be good to her. Here you are, Mrs. Ogd-...Mrs. Barrett."_

After the ragman paid Fanny, he left. I felt pretty sick inside. You can imagine.

 _TONY: "What's with this rag business, baby? Where do you get them?"_

 _FANNY: "Why, I pick them up, Tony. Here and there."_

Nice, huh? Being married to an old hag wasn't enough. Now I had to find out she was a rag-picker besides. That was the last straw. I had made up my mind when Fanny announced after lunch.

 _FANNY: "I'm going out, dear. Don't be too lonely while I'm gone."_

 _TONY: "Yeah, Fanny. Sure."_

Fanny didn't say what she was going out for, but I knew it was to do some rag-picking. Well, that was okay with me. That gave me enough time to rummage through the rubble-crammed attic after some pickings of my own.

 _TONY: "I got to find that dough. I got to find that dough and get away. Me, married to a toad-faced rag-picker. I'll go nuts if I have to keep on living with her!"_

I turned that attic upside down, but it was no soap. I didn't find a thing.

 _TONY: "It's got to be in the house somewhere. You just don't hide a hundred grand in a mouse hole. I'll find it if..."_

 _FANNY: "Tony? Where are you, Tony?"_

It was Fanny calling me. I went down and got nauseous looking at her. That patched and faded dress, the two different-colored cotton stockings, and on her feet - no kidding! - sneakers. She had a dirty sack stuffed full over her shoulder.

 _TONY: "Looks like hunting was pretty good today, Fanny. How much you got? Eight bucks worth? Ten?"_

 _FANNY: "Where were you, Tony?"_

 _TONY: "I couldn't stand the mess around this house anymore, so I started cleaning up in the attic."_

 _FANNY: "In the attic? Oh, well. That's nice."_

Fanny didn't seem disturbed about the nosing around up in the attic, so I figured that's not where the hundred G's was stashed away. I was all on edge waiting for her to go out again so I could start looking somewhere else. But first the ragman turned up.

 _TONY: "I could swear he's the same guy that told me about Fanny."_

 _RAGMAN: "Such nice rags, Mrs. Barrett. Such beautiful rags."_

Finally, Fanny left with her rag sack and I went to work on one of the upstairs rooms, feeling through battered moth-eaten furniture, plowing through the trash-stuffed closet.

 _TONY: "It'll take me months to find that dough. A year, maybe! Maybe unless I'm lucky."_

After a while, I got mad and ripped open the mattress on the old brass bed. I was so busy, I didn't hear Fanny sneak upstairs and creep into the room like a scrawny old cat. But suddenly, I felt her there.

 _TONY: "Fanny, I...!"_

 _FANNY: "I'm glad to see you're still cleaning up, Tony."_

I could tell she knew what I was up to, because she had a smile inside that glinted through her eyes. She was laughing in her guts, because I couldn't find her hoard. And it made me mad.

 _TONY: "Yeah, that's what I'm doing. Cleaning up this filthy pigsty! Maybe you didn't like that."_

 _FANNY: "I said I'm glad, honey."_

That's how it went for weeks. Every day that ragman came and got practically delirious over some foul rags my wife sold him.

 _RAGMAN: "Lovely. Absolutely lovely, Mrs. Barrett."_

And every day, after she went out scrounging though Lord-knows-what trash for rags, I plunged into my treasure hunt.

 _TONY: "I gotta find it soon. I gotta get out of here. Every minute I stay is time out of my life worse. It's torture!"_

And she would come back, knowing what I was up to, but I didn't give a hang, expect that she was all the time laughing at me and I'd get all choked up with hate for her.

 _FANNY: "You men are all alike. When you try to tidy up a house, it looks worse than when you started."_

Finally, I couldn't take it no more. I couldn't stand Fanny giving me the horse-laugh. I couldn't stand looking at her. So one day, I went down the cellar and started digging, but not for her money.

 _TONY: "Now, let her come down here! Just let her come."_

And when she got home that day, I listened to her call me, but I didn't answer. I made some noise and waited.

 _FANNY: "Why, Tony! How clever. You're going to bury all the old trash instead of having to carry it outside."_

 _TONY: "Aw, come off it, baby. You know that's not what I'm doing."_

Fanny looked at me real cold like and whispered sarcastically.

 _FANNY: "Of course. You're digging for treasure. A hundred thousand dollar treasure."_

 _TONY: "Wrong again. I'm digging a grave. You're grave!"_

Fanny could see by my face, I was leveling it. It was like she never expected this turn of events. She let out a little squeal and started to run. I swung the pick hard. The pick hooked her deep in her back and she hit the cellar floor like an old log. Then I went to work on that face. That awful, ugly face. It was just something I had to do. Like I was getting even for having degraded by making love to it all for months. After I finished, I dumped her bloody body into the grave and covered the whole thing over with dirt.

 _TONY: "Well, baby. I guess you know who got the last laugh now."_

I was dog-tired from what I had done so I hit the hay early that night and slept until I heard a knock on the front door. It was the ragman.

 _TONY: "Look, pal, my wife took off on a long trip. She won't be back for a couple of weeks. Come back then, huh?"_

 _RAGMAN: "Can't you sell me some rags?"_

I was ready to slam the door in his face, but, just to get rid of the pest, I dragged some old towels from a closet. He didn't seem happy with them.

 _RAGMAN: "These aren't very nice rags, Mr. Barrett. I can't pay you much for them."_

 _TONY: "Forget it, pal. Take them as a gift. Now go away and don't bother me!"_

I spent days combing through the rest of the house. I even tore up the kitchen, smashed part the old stove. No dough! It was getting me down.

 _TONY: "It's got to be here somewhere! It's got to! I can't quit! I can't!"_

And to top it all off, that crummy creep kept coming back. Until this morning, I flipped my lid.

 _TONY: "I've been over this dump from attic to cellar! I gave you every rag I could find! I got no more rags! Now, for God's sake, leave me alone!"_

 _RAGMAN: "Mrs. Barrett would have rags for me."_

Now I'm a guy with a strong conscience, so what with the ragman pestering me and Fanny laying dead in the cellar, I couldn't sleep tonight. Around midnight or so, I heard a noise in the house. I got a gun out of my suitcase and went downstairs for a look. The noise was coming from the cellar. I went down. It was him again in my house, nosing around.

 _TONY: "I told you I got no more rags! Now-!"_

 _RAGMAN: "But you do. Nice rags. The clothes on her."_

He was pointing at Fanny's grave. He knew that I killed her and I knew than I have to kill him. I pulled the trigger once, twice. He didn't even wince.

 _TONY: "I couldn't miss at such close range. I hit you twice. I can see the holes."_

 _RAGMAN: "I loved her, Mr. Barrett. I wanted her to be happy. I didn't expect this."_

I emptied the gun at him. Four more shots, but he just stood there.

 _RAGMAN: "She needed more than I could give her. Someone young. Someone like you. That's why I told you about her money. I wanted her to be happy."_

 _TONY: "Die! I shot you six times! Die already!"_

I kept staring stupidly at the six holes burned into his chest. Then I snatched up the pick. I swung it, catching him below the shoulder, sinking it into his back.

 _TONY: "You're not human! You're not! There's no blood! You're not even flesh and bone!"_

 _RAGMAN: "Of course not, Mr. Barrett."_

He leaped at me, wrapping his hands around my throat. Funny kind of hands, soft and stringy-like. He kept choking me, cutting off my air. I tore at his body, trying to making him lose his hold and my hands came away with chunks of soft, foul-smelling...

 _TONY: "Rags! You're nothing, but...*choke*...rags!"_

 _RAGMAN: "That's why I sent you to her. She needed more than me. I loved her. But I knew she would never love a ragman."_

 _TONY: "Ggnnnnnggggggg...!"_

Everything's going red and black now. I hear a funny kind of music in my head and laughing. I hear Fanny laughing.


	10. Prairie Schooner

**Prairie Schooner (Tales from the Crypt #40, Feb/March 1954)**

Mildred Jackson flung open the door of her house and squealed with joy. He stood on the paint-starved front porch, dressed resplendently in his captain's uniform, his face bronzed from 40 years at sea, his eyes cold and squinting, his mouth grim, his two suit cases beside him.

 _MILDRED:_ _"Ezra! Ezra! Why didn't you write me you were coming to visit?! Oh, Ezra, it's good to see you again."_

 _EZRA: "Hello, Milly. Got a place for yer old sea dog brother to bunk down for a spell?"_

Milly led Ezra into the parlor.

 _MILDRED: "There's always room for you here, Ezra. You know that. How long will you stay?"_

 _EZRA: "Just for spell, Milly. Just 'till I decide what I'm goin' t' do next. Y'see, they took away my ship. They retired me."_

 _MILDRED: "Retired? Oh, Ezra. I'm so sorry."_

 _EZRA: "Yep, my sailin' days are over, Milly. Well, where do I stow my gear?"_

That was how Ezra Jackson came to live with his sister, Mildred. At first, Milly was very happy to have him. After all, she was an old maid and Ezra was company. But as time went on, Ezra began to do strange things.

 _MILDRED: "Ezra, what are you looking at through your spyglass?"_

 _EZRA: "Huh?"_

 _MILDRED: "I said what are you looking at with your spyglass?"_

 _EZRA: "N-Nothing, Milly! I was just watching that ship on the horizon!"_

 _MILDRED: "Ship?! But Ezra, this is Kansas! There aren't any ships on the horizon. There isn't any water for hundreds of miles!"_

One night, Milly was roused out of a sound sleep by heavy paws shaking her roughly.

 _MILDRED: "Wha...? What's wrong, Ezra? What is it?"_

 _EZRA: "Get up, you lazy swab! You're late for your watch! And if you ever do this again, I'll have you thrown to the brig!"_

From that night on, Milly was forced to "stand watch". She had to move through the halls of the old house from 2:00 AM to dawn, carrying a lantern and shouting...

 _EZRA: "Louder, you blithering idiot! Louder!"_

 _MILDRED: "Eight bells and all's well!"_

It was obvious to poor Milly that her older brother was ill. Mentally ill. The shock of being retired had been too much for him. His mind had snapped. He fancied himself at sea again. The house, his ship. And she, his crew.

 _EZRA: "You call this clean?! I want this deck scrubbed 'till I can see my reflection! Understand?!"_

 _MILDRED: "Yes, Ezra."_

 _EZRA: "Don't "Ezra" me! It's "Yes, Captain Jackson"! Now, get to work, you bilge rat!"_

 _MILDRED: "Yes, Captain Jackson."_

Milly had been a school teacher in her younger years. She had worked hard and managed to save a small amount of money. She had used part of it to buy the house she now lived in. The rest, she had invested wisely and she had been able to live comfortably. But with Ezra's arrival, her meager income was not enough.

 _EZRA: "Phaaah! You call this food!? You dare to feed this slop to your captain?! You ought to be strung up and given ten lashes!"_

 _MILDRED: "It's...it's the best we can afford, Ezra! Please try to understand!"_

 _EZRA: "I understand one thing, you galley pig! Either the food improves or it's irons for you! And it's "Captain Jackson"! Y'hear?"_

 _MILDRED: "Y-Yes, Captain Jackson!"_

So Milly was forced to earn extra money to augment the small income she derived from her investments. She had to take in washing.

 _EZRA: "Where in blazes are you, you sloppy sea cook?"_

 _MILDRED: "I'm...in the cellar, Captain. I'm doing ship's laundry."_

Ezra came down the cellar stairs, screaming...

 _EZRA: "YOU'RE "BELOW", YOU DUMB LANDLUBBER! NOT "IN THE CELLAR". "BELOW"!"_

 _MILDRED: "Y-Yes, Captain! I'm...below!"_

Ezra stood in the center of the cellar floor, staring about him with wide gleaming eyes.

 _EZRA: "Perfect! Perfect! Just the place for quarters. Here, you, send for the ship's carpenters. The ship fitters."_

 _MILDRED: "Y-Yes, Captain!"_

Milly was helpless. She had no other choice. Expect, perhaps, have Ezra put away. So she called in a carpenter. A plumber.

 _EZRA: "Avast, up there! Come below!"_

 _MILDRED: "Please gentlemen. Remember. Humor him. He's...quite harmless."_

 _PLUMBER: "Of course, Miss Jackson."_

 _CARPENTER: "We understand, Miss Jackson."_

Ezra stormed about in the cellar, shouting out his orders.

 _EZRA: "Rip out those windows! Close 'em up! Put up false walls! Mahogany paneled walls! Set in port holes! Real port holes that open!"_

 _CARPENTER: "Yes, Mr, Jackson."_

 _EZRA: "CAPTAIN JACKSON! Put ocean scenes behind the port holes. Hang ship's lanterns around. Put in a bunk. A galley. A head. Make everything authentic! This is my ship!"_

 _CARPENTER: "Yes, Captain!"_

And poor Mill withdrew her life's savings from her investments to pay for the nonsense.

 _MILDRED: "...4,990...5,000 dollars. Here you are, Mr. Gunner."_

 _GUNNER: "Thank you, ma'am. I hope your brother is happy with the job we did."_

"Below" in his ship's quarters, Captain Jackson bellowed...

 _EZRA: "Stand by to cast off! Engine room, full speed astern! All hands, man your stations! On the double!"_

Milly came "below" carrying her laundry basket filled with the wash she had been taking in.

 _EZRA: "What in blazes are you doing down here with that?!"_

 _MILDRED: "I've got to do the ship's laundry, Captain. I've-"_

Ezra struck out savagely.

 _MILDRED: "Ow!"_

 _EZRA: "You'll do the laundry on deck, you scullion beggar! Get out of my quarters!"_

With her investments wiped out and the income from them gone, Milly had to take in more wash than she could handle in order to meet expenses and Ezra's abuse became worse and worse.

 _EZRA: "Scrub out that head, you fo'c'sle drudge!"_

 _MILDRED: "Y-Yes, Captain!"_

Poor Milly would escape, every chance she could get and locker herself in the upstairs bathroom in order to do the wash in the tub. And as she scrubbed, she would listen to Ezra's ranting and raving.

 _EZRA: "Ease the helm! Give 'er more rudder! Steady as you go! Hard aport! Steady! Steady go!"_

 _MILDRED: "...sob...sob..."_

One hot summer's day, Ezra stood at the open port hole, shouting out at the sea-scape sea beyond.

 _EZRA: "Ahoy! Ahoy there! Ship ahoy! Hold fast! Stand by!"_

While upstairs, directly overhead in the bathroom, Milly panted over a load of wash. The hot water, running into the tub over the soaking clothes sent up clouds of steam which filled the locked bathroom. Suddenly, Milly clutched at the excruciating pain in her chest, toppling over.

 _MILDRED: "...*gasp*..."_

And as her heart failed and her life faded with it, the boiling water overflowed the tub, pooling about her prostrate body, sinking through the bathroom floor. In his cellar ship's quarters, Captain Jackson listened as the water, leaking down from the overflowing bathtub above, filled the space between the false mahogany paneled walls and the foundation of the house.

 _EZRA: "Stormy sea tonight! Batten down the hatches! We're in for a blow!"_

Suddenly, the water began to pour through the open port holes.

 _EZRA: "All hands! All hands! We're taking on water! Man the bilge pumps! Secure the bulwarks!"_

The cellar filled with steam. Captain Jackson staggered to the port holes, slammed them shut. The pressure of the water crumbled the paneled walls.

 _EZRA: "Abandon ship! We're sinking!"_

Slowly, the water rose in the cellar, boiling, scalding, blistering Ezra's aged body. But he stubbornly stood fast.

 _EZRA: "Abandon ship! The captain must remain!"_

Until the rising hot water reached his chin, his neck, poured into his mouth and stewed his tongue, his throat, his lungs.

 _EZRA: "...*glugg, glugg*..."_


	11. Midnight Mess

**The Midnight Mess Trilogy: Part 1 (Midnight Mess)**

The clock in the steeple of the village hall chimed 5 as Harold Madison moved across the square from the railroad station. In the distance, the train whistled off into the gathering twilight. Harold gazed up at the clock tower still echoing the last chime, looked around at the quaint buildings lining the square and chuckled.

 _HAROLD: "Heh! This is just the kind of berg my sister would be happy in. What a dead-looking place."_

The village square was strangely deserted. Harold set down his valise and scratched his head.

 _HAROLD: "Nobody around. No cabs. No nothing. Well, how in blazes will I find my sister's house? All I know is the address."_

A nervous-looking old man came out of one of the small stores, locked the door and and hurried across the square toward Harold. He kept looking around as if he were being followed. Harold called to him...

 _HAROLD: "Hey! Hey, you! Where's Shore Street? 1223 Shore Street!"_

 _MAN: "Eh, Shore Street? West, two blocks, then east, three! But you'd better hurry! It's getting dark!"_

The nervous old man trotted on past Harold, not even stopping for an instant.

 _HAROLD: "So it's getting dark. So what?"_

 _MAN: "You're a stranger here, aren't you? You don't know about them?"_

 _HAROLD: "No, I don't! Know about what?"_

 _MAN: "The vampires!"_

 _HAROLD: "The...the who? The vampire? Aw, c'mon!"_

 _MAN: "Better hurry! It'll be sundown soon. Vampires come out after sundown!"_

Then the old man was gone, up a narrow alley. Harold laughed and continued on across the square. A sign caught his eye.

 _HAROLD: "Ah! A restaurant! I could do with a bite to eat. I'm starved."_

The restaurant was small, but the mirrored wall at the far end made it appear much larger than it actually was. Except for one to two people who were finishing their meals, the place was empty. A waiter came forward.

 _WAITER: "I-I'm sorry, sir. But we are closing. It is almost dark, you know."_

 _HAROLD: "What the...? You too?! What if it is getting dark? It's dinner time and I'm hungry!"_

The waiter shook his head.

 _WAITER: "We close in order that our help may get home before sundown, sir. The vampires, you know."_

 _HAROLD: "Vampires? What vampires?"_

For a moment, the waiter stared at Harold. Then his eyes fell to his suitcase.

 _WAITER: "Oh, you're a stranger here! Then you do not know what is happening."_

 _HAROLD: "No! I don't! What's this all about?"_

 _WAITER: "There have been seventeen cases so far. Bodies found with every drop of blood drained out of them. The whole town is in the grip of fear. It's the work of vampires."_

 _HAROLD: "Bah! No such thing!"_

 _WAITER: "Nevertheless, I suggest that you get to where you're going before it becomes dark and the vampires begin to roam the streets looking for a victim."_

 _HAROLD: "Okay, okay! I'm going! Where's 1223 Shore Street? Can you tell me that?"_

 _WAITER: "Of course. West, two blocks, then east, three. Good night."_

 _HAROLD: "Good night! Hmmph! Is everybody in this berg nuts? Vampires! Hmmph!"_

Harold stalked through the town towards his sister's house. As he went, he could hear doors being locked and bolted, blinds being drawn. Finally...

 _DONNA: "Yes? Who's out there?"_

 _HAROLD: "Donna? It's me! Harold! You're brother!"_

Harold's sister threw open the door.

 _DONNA: "Harold! You...you weren't out there in the dark!"_

 _HAROLD: "Oh no, Donna. Don't tell me you believe in this vampire business, too."_

Donna locked and bolted the door behind Harold and turned to face him, her eyes wide with terror.

 _DONNA: "Of course, I believe in vampires! Seventeen villagers murdered already! Blood drained! What else could have done it?"_

 _HAROLD: "Donna, there are no such things as vampires. They're myths! Perhaps...perhaps there's a homicidal maniac loose in this town? Certainly there must be a logical explanation. But not vampires! It's ridiculous."_

 _DONNA: "Alright, Harold. Believe what you want to believe. Now let's forget about it. Come inside. Tell me. Why the surprise visit?"_

 _HAROLD: "Well, I was on my way to the coast and I thought I'd drop in on you."_

 _DONNA: "It's good to see you, Harold. You're looking well."_

That night, Harold Madison could not sleep. He tossed and turned on the cot Donna had set up for him. Finally he got and dressed.

 _HAROLD: "Guess I'll go for a walk."_

Out into the deserted streets, Harold moved down silent sidewalks toward the village square.

 _HAROLD: "Vampires! Pfft!"_

Every door, every window that Harold passed was locked up tight and dark. The village square was empty and silent.

 _HAROLD: "Not a soul out. They sure roll this town up tighter than a drum after dark."_

And then he heard it. The laughter and the gay chatter. It came from a familiar building.

 _HAROLD: "Well, I'll be! The restaurant I was in this afternoon. It's open. There's people going in."_

The restaurant was all lit up. People at tables, talking and eating, Harold went in.

 _HAROLD: "That's why I couldn't sleep. I was hungry. Guess I'll have something to eat."_

Harold sat down at a table. He looked around at the people seated near him. A waiter approached. A different one from the one he had spoken to earlier.

 _HAROLD: "Certainly are some queer-looking characters out this time of night."_

 _WAITER: "Will you have the dinner, sir? Or would you...?"_

The waiter looked at Harold with dark piercing eyes. Harold smiled uncomformably.

 _HAROLD: "Oh, heh. The dinner will be fine. Er...what's the menu tonight?"_

 _WAITER: "Juice, soup, roast with french fries, coffee, sherbet..."_

Harold licked his lips.

 _HAROLD: "Good. Say, I am hungry. Heh, heh!"_

 _WAITER: "I'll be right back."_

The waiter went away and came back with a glass of juice.

 _HAROLD: "Ah, tomato juice!"_

 _WAITER: "Very funny."_

Harold sipped the chilled juice in the glass. It tasted saltier than usual and thinner.

 _HAROLD: "Ugh! Oh, well. Can't expect much in a small-town restaurant. The waiter's looking at me. I'd better finish it."_

The soup was hot. But it too was saltier than Harold would've liked.

 _HAROLD: "Strangest tasting bouillon I've ever had. Richer than usual, too."_

 _WAITER: "Do you like your roast clots well-done or medium?"_

 _HAROLD: "Roast what?"_

 _WAITER: "Clots! Roast blood clots! Say, who are you?"_

 _HAROLD: "BLOOD?! Oh my,...*choke*...!"_

 _WAITER: "Draw the curtain! Draw the curtain! There's an intruder in our midst!"_

And then Harold noticed that the mirror on the back wall of the restaurant was curtained. And now the curtain was being opened.

HAROLD: "Good lord!"

The restaurant was crowded with people and yet, in the mirror, Harold sat alone in the place.

 _HAROLD: "Only...*gasp*...only I cast a reflection. The rest..."_

Suddenly, they were around him. The other customers. Fangs bared, coming at him.

 _HAROLD: "The rest are...vampires!"_

Donna elbowed her way through the crowd.

 _DONNA: "Harold! I told you not to go out! I told you! Now it's too late!"_

 _HAROLD: "Donna? What are you doing here?"_

 _DONNA: "I'm one of them, Harold. I'm a vampire, too. Why do you think I came to this town? I had to. It was the only place I could go."_

 _HAROLD: "But this restaurant. I don't understand."_

 _DONNA: "In the old days, humans hunted their own food. Prepared it themselves. Vampires, too. In the legends, hunted their own victims. But now, we, just like modern man, leave the hunting to the professionals. We leave the preparing to the professionals, too."_

 _HAROLD: "You mean...?"_

 _DONNA: "The restaurant serves blood dishes. Like a vegetarian restaurant serves vegetable dishes. Blood-juice cocktail, hot blood-consomme, roast blood-clots, french-fried scabs, blood sherbet..."_

 _HAROLD: "...*choke*..."_

 _DONNA: "I'm sorry, Harold. But like the other seventeen that wandered into this town, you will have to be silenced. I cannot save you."_

 _WAITER: "The tap! Bring the tap!"_

Harold was lifted bodily by the giggling crowd of vampires while his sister looked on unconcernedly. One vampire brought a rope. Another, a tap.

 _VAMPIRE #1: "Tie up his feet!"_

 _VAMPIRE #2: "String him up!"_

 _VAMPIRE #3: "A party!"_

And so Harold was strung up, head down. The tap was inserted into his jugular vein and each of the vampires came one by own and filled it's glass.

 _VAMPIRE #4: "Nothing like the real stuff!"_

 _VAMPIRE #5: "I'll say!"_


	12. Morning Mess

**The Midnight Mess Trilogy: Part 2 (Morning Mess)**

The cemetery lay silent beneath a cold moon that skipped in and out from behind dark clouds that raced along on a risk November wind. Below, the muffled sound of digging echoed into the night. A man stood knee-deep in an excavation among the flat plainly-marked graves, anxiously sinking his spade into the soft earth and tossing it onto a growing pile beside him. Every so often, the man would stop his work, listen and then hearing nothing, continue digging.

 _SWEENEY: "I thought there was something screwy about this whole set-up. Right from the beginning, i felt it. Now I'm going to find out for sure."_

The man furiously spaded the black loam out of the veer-deepening hole, all the while mumbling to himself.

 _SWEENEY: "'The Grateful Hoboes' Society'! Hmmph! It smelled funny from the start. An experienced reporter learns to sense these things. And I sensed it that first day. At the press conference in the mayor's office."_

'I remember how pompous old Mayor Merk stood before us and wheezed out his announcement.'

 _MERK: "Gentlemen! Our fair city has long had the problem of disposing of it's derelicts and homeless ones who pass away with no friends or relatives to properly bury them. Heretofore, these wretched unfortunates have been laid to rest by our city in potter's fields maintained by your taxes. Now, this sad responsibility has been taken out of your city's hands. Gentlemen, may I present Felix J. Copehard, representative of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society', who will tell you of the wonderful offer his organization has made. The offer I have graciously accepted. Mr. Copehard._

'I remember shifty-eyed Mr. Copehard, smiling, soft-spoken.'

 _COPEHARD: "Gentlemen, 'The Grateful Hoboes', Outcasts and Unwanted Layaway Society' - 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society' for short - was formed by a group of successful business and professional men who felt that they owed a debt of gratitude to this fair city. All the members of this organization came to this city as down-and-outers, drifters, derelicts, or just plain bums. But here, they found opportunity. Here, they found financial success. And so, in gratitude, they have banded together to aid and endow other drifters and unwanteds. They have purchased a small parcel of land in one of our city's suburbs. Landscaped it and have turned it into a cemetery. A beautiful cemetery where the poor outcasts who have not been as fortunate as they may be laid to final rest in dignity when they pass from our mortal world. 'The Grateful Hoboes', who prefer to remain anonymous, have created an endowment fund, through mutual contributions, with which all funeral and cemetery upkeep expenses will be met. No longer will your taxes be needed for this purpose. No longer will shoddy potter's fields mar the beauty of our fair city's surrounding countryside. No longer will..."_

'Yes, it smelled funny, alright. I remember listened to Mr. Copehard rave on, expounding upon the wonderful group of philanthropists he represented and I remember finally asking...'

 _SWEENEY_ _: "My question, Mr. Copehard, is: Why should a group of rich men suddenly become concerned about some derelicts' funerals?"_

 _COPEHARD: "I explained, sir. All of these men..."_

 _SWEENEY_ _: "Yes, yes, they were all once bums themselves. You explained that. But why wait until these derelicts die before helping them? Couldn't the money be put to better use by rehabilitating them while they are alive?"_

 _COPEHARD: "'The Grateful Hoboes' are all self-made men, sir. They received no help when they were down. The present condition of the derelict in our city does not concern these men. Let the derelict rise up as they have done. But when the derelict can no longer rise up, when he passed on, then let him be raised in final rest."_

 _SWEENEY_ _: "I still don't get it."_

'I remember attending that first funeral and seeing 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society's' cemetery for the first time.'

 _REVEREND: "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."_

 _MAN: "Nice place, Sweeney!"_

 _SWEENEY: "Yeah, beautiful. It almost pays to die penniless."_

'And I remember in the years that followed, returning from time to time and seeing the rolling lawns with the simple grave markers.'

 _SWEENEY: "How come no grave mounds?"_

 _OLDER MAN: "I only work here, mister. The Society says this is the modern way a cemetery should look. So I do like they say."_

'But after a while, the work of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society' became stale news and I turned to other things. Then, this morning, my editor called me in.'

 _EDITOR: "Sweeney, you covered the opening of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society's' cemetery for outcasts and unwanteds, didn't you?"_

 _SWEENEY: "Yeah, chief. What's up?"_

 _EDITOR: "Well, according to the Obit Department, they're burning the thousandth derelict today. Take a run out and cover it for us, huh? It ought to be worth a paragraph or two."_

 _SWEENEY: "Sure, chief. Hey, did you say the thousandth derelict?"_

 _EDITOR: "Yeah, why?"_

 _SWEENEY: "But that's impossible! It could't be."_

 _EDITOR: "Why couldn't it? It's been almost seven years. This is a big city. We got a lot of bums."_

 _SWEENEY: "You don't understand, chief. I'll see you later."_

'So I drove out there this morning.'

 _MAN: "Something I can do for you?"_

 _SWEENEY: "I'm Sweeney from The Globe. Come out to cover the funeral today."_

 _MAN: "Oh! I see. Well, the gravediggers are over there now, preparing the grave."_

 _SWEENEY: "I'll just mosey over and watch, if you don't mind."_

'I watched them dig the six foot hole.'

 _GRAVEDIGGER #1: "Okay, that's it!"_

 _GRAVEDIGGER #2: "And just in time, too. Here they come."_

'I watched the whole ceremony. A few derelict friends of the departed one had come along to pay their last respects to their fellow.'

 _REVEREND: "Lower the coffin."_

 _DERELICT'S FRIEND #1: "He wash a shwell feller."_

 _DERELICT'S FRIEND #2: "...*schniff*..."_

'After the ceremony, the gravediggers returned and shoveled the dirt back into the hole and mounted it up neatly.'

 _GRAVEDIGGERS: "There. That'll do. C'mon!"_

 _SWEENEY: "Hmmm..."_

'After the gravediggers left, I stood a while looking out over the rolling lawns with the simple markers and the new fresh grave-mound jutting out like a sore thumb.'

 _SWEENEY: "That's strange. Very strange."_

'I started pacing. I paced along the gate on the west side of the cemetery. Then I paced along the gate on the north side.'

 _SWEENEY: "I'm right. I know I'm right!"_

'I went back to the car. I started scratching away on my memo-pad, figuring.'

 _SWEENEY: "Just what I thought. There isn't enough area in that cemetery for a thousand graves."_

'There was something fishy about this set-up. I knew it. I took a last look at the single mound amid the greenery.'

 _SWEENEY: "They must be stacking them! One above the other! Unless..."_

'And drove to the nearest shopping section. I stopped at a hardware store.'

 _SWEENEY: "I'd like to buy a spade."_

'I drove back to the cemetery and hid my car. I scaled the fence, picked a hiding place and waited, watching it grow dark.'

 _SWEENEY: "I'll find out. I'll find out what this is all about."_

'And then something happened. Something weird and frightening. The mount, the single grave-mound, sunk down into the earth. Sunk down until it was level with the surrounding grass.'

 _SWEENEY: "Good lord."_

The cemetery lay silent beneath a cold moon. The muffled sound of digging echoed into the night. The man mumbled to himself as he dug furiously.

 _SWEENEY: "So I'll find out what this is all about. I'll find out. Why should a grave mound just sink down? Just vanish? Why?"_

The sound of metal striking metal reverberated in the deep hole the man had dug. He looked around, confused.

 _SWEENEY: "Metal? That's funny! The coffin was wood. And...hey! I'm a good six feet down. I should have hit the coffin long ago. This isn't the coffin!"_

The man cleared the soil away from the metal floor of the grave.

 _SWEENEY: "The coffin is gone! This...this is a door! A door that opens downward!"_

The man stood up in the grave. He stared at the old house nearby, beyond the cemetery gates. There were lights on inside it, shining shaded windows.

 _SWEENEY: "Now I get it. Now I get it! 'The Grateful Hoboes'-"_

Suddenly, the metal floor beneath the man's feet collapsed and he plummeted downward.

 _COPEHARD: "Good evening, Mr. Sweeney. I thought I heard you knocking."_

 _SWEENEY: "Copehard!"_

 _COPEHARD: "It is too bad that you discovered our little secret, Mr. Sweeney."_

 _SWEENEY: "This is how you can bury a thousand bodies in a cemetery that couldn't hold six hundred."_

 _COPEHARD: "Exactly, Mr. Sweeney. And now, if you will lead the way, minding this gun I have here, I will show you our intricate underground network."_

 _SWEENEY: "But why? Why all this?"_

 _COPEHARD: "As a matter of fact, Mr. Sweeney, we got the idea from a comic magazine. Notice that there is a steel trap door beneath each grave location. All this eliminates digging, you see."_

 _SWEENEY: "That's why the mound sink down! You say you got the idea from a comic magazine?"_

 _COPEHARD: "Yes. A horror magazine. 'Tales from the Crypt', I believe. In it was a story called 'Midnight Mess'. Up those stairs, please."_

 _SWEENEY: "'Midnight Mess'? What was it about?"_

 _COPEHARD: "It was about an organization of vampires who established a restaurant where they could get the blood they needed. Through that door, please."_

 _SWEENEY: "The Grateful Hoboes are vampires?!"_

 _COPEHARD: "Oh, no, Mr. Sweeney. We merely applied the story to our own needs. All we did was buy this house and...in there, please."_

 _SWEENEY: "Good lord!"_

There were twenty or thirty of them sitting about the huge banquet table, patting their mouths with their napkins.

 _COPELAND: Meet the 'Grateful Hoboes', Outcasts and Unwanted Layaway Society', Mr. Sweeney. We are what our initials stand for."_

 _SWEENEY: "...*choke*...G.H.O.U.L.S.?!"_


	13. Concerto for Violin and Werewolf

**The Midnight Mess Trilogy: Part 3 (Concerto for Violin and Werewolf)**

Sacha Barak, the famed concert violinist, clutched his precious stradivarius protectively to his breast and caused softly to himself as the old coach rumbled and bumped over the rutted road through the Romanian countryside. The old coach had been the only means of transportation available to Sacha. Taxi drivers had looked at him wide-eyed and turned away when he told them his destination. So he had climbed into the ancient vehicle with it's tight-lipped driver and now he was being whipped and jostled about as it thundered into the night.

 _SACHA: "Blast! These confounded Transylvanian highways are even worse than I remember them. If it wren't to see Vasile Iorga, I would never even attempt such a journey!"_

The foam-flecked horse charged into the ominous black hills without slackening it's mad pace. Sacha leaned from the coach window and shouted at the driver, who remained as he had been from the start of the trip, sullen and mute.

 _SACHA: "Slow down, you fool! Do you want to get us both killed?!"_

So the famed violinist could only pray for safe deliverance to his destination. Soon, the creaking, groaning coach clattered loudly over the cobblestones. They were passing through a town that Sacha recognized.

 _SACHA: "Chisasi! Thank heavens! Only seven more miles to Brudja."_

The last seven miles between Chisasi and Brudja were even worse than what had gone before. The coach bounced and heaved over the pitted and scarred dirt road. But at last...

 _SACHA: "So this is Brudja. No wonder they don't pave the road here. Only a fool would come to this godforsaken town now. Why everything is moldering with decay and rot."_

Vasile Iorga lived in an ancient house at the edge of town. Sacha stood before the man he had dreamed so long of seeing. But time had done it's work on his old teacher.

 _VASILE: "No! I don't recognize you! Who are you? What do you want?"_

 _SACHA: "Maestro! It's your old pupil, Sacha! Sacha Barak!"_

Sacha almost wept as he looked at the face of his teacher. A face that had once been handsome and powerful and noble, but now was withered and toothless with faded, watery eyes. Vasili was a mere shell of the strict, stern maestro Sacha had so long revered.

 _VASILE: "Forgive me, Sacha. I do not see as well as I used to. How good of you to remember."_

 _SACHA: "As if I could ever forget the man who recognized my talent when I was but a child and taught me all I know."_

Suddenly, Sacha noticed the old man stiffen. Saw his face grow grey and his eyes fill with terror.

 _VASILE: "Sacha! You should never have to visit me here in Brudja! It is dangerous!"_

 _SACHA: "Dangerous? Why, maestro?"_

The old man looked around uneasily, then stared at his former pupil and whispered.

 _VASILE: "Don't you remember, Sacha? This is werewolf country! Don't you recall the incident that took place almost twenty years ago when I was living in Chisasi and you used to come to me for lessons?"_

 _SACHA: "How could I? So many things have happened since. What incident?"_

 _VASILE: "Don't you remember that young couple? They had driven here from Budapest, impulsively risking a tour through the Transylvanian Alps. The rugged road between Chisasi and Brudja had proven too much for their motor car.'_

* * *

 _RUDOLF: Be patient, Marta! I will find the trouble in a moment!_

 _MARTA: "If you don't, I shall freeze in this mountain night air, Rudolf!"_

 _'A full moon had risen, filtering through the gnarled old trees and an ominous silence enveloped the lonely surrounding countryside. A rustling of nearby brambles caused the woman to turn her head and what she saw brought a soul-piercing scream from her throat.'_

 _MARTA: "RUDOLF! EEEEAAA!"_

 _RUDOLF: "What is it, Marta?!"_

 _'It was a werewolf! It sprang upon the young woman, sinking it's razor-sharp fangs into her soft, white flesh while the young man scrambled from beneath the car.'_

 _MARTA: "AAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"_

 _RUDOLF: "Marta! My god!"_

 _'As the young man came at the slavering, snarling, bloodthirsty werewolf, it fled. Shaking with horror, he flung his lantern after the fleeing beast. The lantern shattered against a tree trunk, bursting into flame and he saw, by the sudden light, his wife's arm dangling from the werewolf's drooling mouth.'_

 _RUDOLF: "...*choke*..."_

 _'Don't you remember, Sacha? You heard the screams, the growls, the commotion outside. You wanted to go.'_

 _VASILE: "Nevermind, Sacha! Your debut is only two weeks off. We must practice. Get back to your music stand."_

 _SACHA: "But, maestro! There must be something wrong! Look! Men running with lanterns!"_

 _'Don't you remember the woman lying beside the car? Her eyes staring, her face ashen and her husband listening in horror to the words.'_

 _VILLAGERS: "She's dead!" "No! Oh, lord! No!"_

 _SACHA: "Maestro, what happened to her?"_

 _VASILE: "Come away, Sacha. Come away."_

* * *

The old teacher finished his story with a sigh. Sacha noticed that he was shaking and covered with sweat and his toothless old mouth quivered.

 _VASILE: "Don't you remember?"_

 _SACHA: "Oh, yes, maestro. I do remember. But the explanation of the incident was simple enough. The woods are full of wolves. They've been known to attack a man."_

 _VASILE: "There have been more incidents, Sacha! Here! Read this newspaper sent to me from Bucharest!"_

 _SACHA: "Do you expect me to believe there is a werewolf here in Brudja?"_

 _VASILE: "I ask you to believe this! See the date? Nearly two months ago! Read!"_

 _SACHA: "'A member of Bucharest Society paid with his life last night when he ignored the warning to stay away from the Transylvanian town of Brudja. There was a full moon and his body, stripped of flesh, was found...'"_

The old man pointed to the article in the newspaper.

 _VASILE: "There was a full moon, Sacha! A lycanthropic moon! In two days, there will be another! I beg of you, do not stay in Brudja!"_

 _SACHA: "Nonsense, maestro. I am as safe here as you are. If I am not welcome in your home, I will go to the inn. But I will not be frightened into leaving Brudja."_

The old maestro shrugged his shoulders.

 _VASILE: "You were always stubborn, Sacha. And I do want you to stay. It's just that, at this tome of the month and a stranger in town, well...promise me you'll keep your bedroom windows and door locked."_

 _SACHA: "Of course, maestro. I know how to take care of myself. Look."_

Sacha opened his suitcase and took out his revolver.

 _SACHA: "I carry it to protect myself and my stradivarius."_

 _VASILE: "A stradivarius?! A genuine stradivarius!? Let me see!"_

Old Vasile opened Sacha's violin case and drew forth the stradivarius. He fondled it reverently as Sacha stared at his gun.

 _SACHA: "If it remember right, maestro, legend has it that only a silver bullet can kill a werewolf."_

 _VASILE: "Beautiful. Beautiful! It...eh? Sacha, what are you thinking?"_

Sacha's eyes narrowed. He smiled grimly.

 _SACHA: "I'm thinking about killing me a werewolf, Vasile. Do you have an iron kettle I may use to must down some silver-?"_

 _VASILE: "Don't be a fool, Sacha! Why risk your life?"_

 _SACHA: "I am no fool, maestro! Think of the publicity I will receive. Headlines in all the papers throughout Europe! 'Famed violinist frees Romany town of rampaging werewolf'! You see, Vasile, there's more success than mere genius! Even I must have publicity! So stop worrying about me. Tell you what. You may play my stradivarius as long as I stay here. Now get me that kettle."_

Sacha spent the next few hours in the cellar, melting down silver coins and pouring the molten silver into a mold he made by pressing the slug from an ordinary bullet into the moist earth. And as he worked, elegiac strains of a sad gypsy air played on the stradivarius by the faltering hands of his old teacher filtered down from the parlor.

 _SACHA: "Hmmm. The old boy can still play."_

When the silver slugs were cooled, Sacha removed the lead slugs from the regular bullets and replaced the silver ones in the steel jackets. He went upstairs, filled the chambers of his revolver with his handiwork and placed the gun in his overcoat pocket.

 _SACHA: "There, maestro. Now I'm ready for the werewolf of Brudja."_

 _VASILE: "Such tone, Sacha. Such mellow sounds come from this glorious instrument."_

The next morning, even though the old maestro, warned him against it, Sacha walked into town. The sun beat down on the marketplace, but the warmth it brought was not enough to offset the cold, suspicious stares of the townsfolk.

 _SACHA: "Hmmm! Not a friendly face among them. The way they look at me, you'd think I was the werewolf."_

But there was more than suspicion and coldness in the townspeople's stares. Sacha seemed to sense a certain tenseness. Perhaps hostility. He plunged his hand into his overcoat pockets, feeling for the reassuring steel of his revolver.

 _SACHA: "My gun! It's gone!"_

Sacha returned at once to Vasile Iorga's house. He was very upset and spoke excitedly to the old violin teacher.

 _SACHA: "I thought it was accidental that someone jostled me when I first entered the marketplace, but now I realize that he must have stolen my gun. Do you know what that means, Vasile? One of your townspeople if the werewolf!"_

 _VASILE: "Now that you're gun is gone, perhaps you will leave."_

Sacha stared at his toothless maestro.

 _SACHA: "Wait a minute. How did anyone know I had a gun? How did they know it was loaded with silver bullets? How could they? Vasile! You...!"_

 _VASILE: "Yes, Sacha. It was I. I took the gun from your pocket and threw it down the well. It was only because I am afraid for you."_

The old man began to cry.

 _VASILE: "I did it for your own good, Sacha! Now you are angry at me!"_

 _SACHA: "Angry at you? No, maestro! I am touched by your concern for my safety. But I have no intention of leaving Brudja."_

That night, a gibbous moon, not quite full, bathed the old maestro's house in a cold pale light. Inside, Sacha scanned the newspaper while Vasile played the valuable violin.

 _SACHA: "Why this is last month's Bucharest journal, Vasile. And it came today."_

 _VASILE: "The mail is slow coming to Brudja, Sacha. You can understand."_

Sacha was well into the paper before a report caught his eye. He leaped up with a start.

 _SACHA: "Vasile! Listen to this! 'There was a full moon last night when five persons from Chisasi became drunk while celebrating a wedding anniversary and wandered into the ill-famed town of Brudja. A searching party found the five bodies the next day outside the town. They had all been stripped of their flesh. Bare skeletons. Unidentifiable.'!"_

 _VASILE: "Yes, Sacha. That happened last month. You see, it has happened so many times to so many hundreds of poor unfortunate people over the years that we here in Brudja are no longer shocked by it."_

 _SACHA: "I recall something I read on my last concert tour, Vasile. I wonder...hmmm. Of course! How stupid of me! Tomorrow, I am going to Chisasi for another gun."_

Early the next morning, Sacha Barak, the famed violinist, walked the seven miles to Chisasi in order to purchase the gun and bullets he needed. He carried his empty violin case.

 _SACHA: "I should have guessed. Well, tonight the moon will be full and I will be waiting for them in the marketplace."_

It was past noon when he returned to Vasile's home. He grinned confidentially as he showed the old man the gun he had bought.

 _SACHA: "...and tonight, I will go into town carrying my violin case. And who would suspect it conceals a gun?"_

 _VASILE: "No one! Of course!"_

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the cellar, carefully molding bullets from molten silver. And when twilight was beginning to shroud the town, Sacha returned to the parlor with his silver ammunition, loaded his gun and replaced it in the violin case.

 _SACHA: "There! Done! And now...good heavens, Vasile! Don't you ever tire of playing the violin?"_

 _VASILE: "Not this one, Sacha. Not a stradivarius. Besides, you said I could play it while you stayed."_

Sacha rested in his room, listening to the lilting strains of the violin. Suddenly, he felt Vasile's hands shaking him.

 _VASILE: "It is almost time, Sacha! The moon is almost full! Come! Let us go!"_

 _SACHA: "Us? No sir, old man. You're staying here. You told me yourself it would be dangerous."_

But Vasile insisted that he would follow Sacha anyway. So they walked into town together. Above, the moon cast an eerie glow upon the cobblestone streets. The marketplace was deserted, yet Sacha was aware of a frightening presence. Something he could only feel instinctively. The weight of the weapon in the violin case comforted him. And then, slowly, the frightening presence made itself known. The townspeople, all of the population of Brudja, began to appear from the alleys and doorways and deep shadows. They came toward Sacha and Vasile.

And as they came, Sacha could see their red eyes glowing in the full moonlight and their hair bristling on their faces and their gleaming white faces dripping with spittle. He could see their snarling, drooling, werewolf faces and he retched in disgust. And then Sacha began to laugh. He knelt and placed the violin case on the cobblestones, fumbling with the latches.

 _SACHA: "I knew I was right! When I read in the paper that five bodies were stripped of their flesh, I knew there had to be more than one werewolf!"_

He shrieked shrilly at them, his words mingling with their low-throated growls. He opened the violin case.

 _SACHA: "And then I remembered a story I'd read in an American comic book on my last concert tour! A story called 'Midnight Mess' in a magazine called Tales from the Crypt, about a town full of vampires! And I knew! I knew that Brudja was a town full of werewolves! And I knew I'd have to be ready for you!"_

The snarling beasts were almost upon him now and their howling sounded like laughter too. Sacha reached for the gun.

 _SACHA: "Well, I am ready for you. All of you! Because I've got a gun loaded with silver bullets! Not just any gun! A Thompson submachine gun! I'm ready for...for...good lord!"_

Sacha's laughter choked back in his troat and the howling came up as the beasts sprang upon him. For there was no submachine gun in his violin case. Only a useless old stradivarius. And as flashing, rolling teeth tore and ripped and gored Sacha, he heard his old maestro's squealing voice.

 _VASILE: "Careful of the violin! And save some soft part for a toothless old werewolf! Remember! I brought him! I fixed things! I took out the gun!"_


	14. A Sock for Christmas

**A Sock for Christmas (The Vault of Horror #29, Feb/March 1953)**

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a huge, beautiful castle, there lived a king, his queen and their only son, the royal prince. Now, since the young prince was their only son and heir to the throne, the royal couple spoiled the boy. Whatever Prince Tarby - for that was his name - wanted, he received. Whatever he did was never wrong. As the king put it...

 _KING IRVING: "Tarby is the royal prince! He can do no wrong!"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "The young prince pushed me into the castle moat, your majesty! If he were my child, I'd whip him black and white for..."_

 _KING IRVING: "Well, he's not your child! He's the royal prince. The royal prince does not get whipped! Understand?"_

 _PRIME MINISTER: "Y-Yes, your majesty! Thank you, your majesty."_

* * *

 _KING IRVING: "Hmmph! The nerve of him! Suggesting that I whip dear Tarby!"_

 _QUEEN MATILDA: Well, Irving. Actually, the boy deserves a whipping. He ruined the Prime Minister's new outfit."_

 _KING IRVING: "Too bad. If the Prime Minister is so anxious to whip someone, let him whip his own child."_

 _QUEEN MATILDA: "But it was Tarby who-"_

 _KING IRVING: "Zounds, Matilda! I've got it! I've got the answer to out problem! Come with me, Tarby!"_

 _QUEEN MATILDA: "Irving! Where are you going?"_

The king ordered his coach! Then, he and the young prince drove down from the castle into the peasant village far below.

 _COACHMAN: "Make way! Make way!"_

 _VILLAGERS: "It's the king!" "And the prince!" "The coach is stopping!"_

The king poked his head out of the coach and scanned the sea of faces before him. Suddenly, he pointed.

 _KING IRVING: "You! Come here!"_

 _VILLAGERS: "He points to the baker's child." "What does he want with him?"_

The king stared down at the small boy before him, then at Prince Tarby, then at the boy again. With a grunt of satisfaction, he nodded.

 _KING IRVING: "Yes! Very good! Very good! Where is your father or mother, you ragamuffin?"_

 _HERKIMER: "I am the boy's father, your majesty? What...what do you want with him?"_

 _KING IRVING: "The boy is coming with me. He will live there as Prince Tarby's companion."_

 _HERKIMER: "No! No! He is my son! You cannot take him from me!"_

 _KING IRVING: Would you deny your son the advantages I can offer him? Good food? Good clothes? An education?"_

 _HERKIMER: "N-No! But...but...!"_

The coach door swung open.

 _KING IRVING: "Get in, boy! I command you!"_

 _HERKIMER: "The king orders you, my son!"_

 _MELVIN: "No! *sob* Father! *sob*"_

The boy's father pushed his young son into the coach.

 _HERKIMER: "Do not cry, son! It is for your own good! Will we...will we be able to see him again, your majesty?"_

 _KING IRVING: "At Christmas! I will him come home for Christmas! Alright, coachman!"_

 _COACHMAN: "Make way! Make way!"_

The baker's son was taken to the castle. But when he arrived, he soon found out that there was more to it than just being spoiled Prince Tarby's companion. There was a catch.

 _KING IRVING: "...and from now on, ladies and gentlemen of the court, when Prince Tarby is bad, he is to be punished. But you will not whip Prince Tarby. You will whip his companion here. You will whip Prince Tarby's whipping boy."_

And so, the first whipping-boy came into being. The poor baker's son became Prince Tarby's whipping substitute. Anytime Tayb was bad, the whipping boy was punished.

 _CHEF: "That was...ungg...wrong of you...ungg...to put the...ungg...cat...ungg...into...ungg...the coven, Tarby!"_

 _MELVIN: "...*sob*...*sob*..."_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Yes, Royal Chef. I won't do it again, Royal Chef."_

Not only was the whipping-boy thrashed for Prince Tarby's misdoings, there were other substitutions.

 _WASHER: "What do you mean, you hate baths? You've got to take a bath! Now, come on!"_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Just one moment, Royal Washer. Oh, whipping-boy?"_

 _MELVIN: "Yes, Prince Tarby."_

The whipping-boy was made to substitute for all of the prince's distasteful responsibilities.

 _DIETITIAN: "Spinach is good for you! You must eat your spinach, Prince Tarby!"_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Yes, Royal Dietitian. Whipping-boy?"_

 _MELVIN: "Pass me your plate, Prince Tarby."_

Summer passed and fall came to the kingdom. And with it came...

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Go to school? I hate school! The Royal whipping-boy will attend school for me, Royal Tutor! Royal whipping-boy?"_

 _MELVIN: "Yes, Prince Tarby. When do I start, Royal Tutor?"_

 _TUTOR: "Tomorrow morning, Royal whipping-boy! Eight o'clock!"_

And so, the whipping-boy even had to go to school for Prince Tarby. There wasn't anything that Prince Tarby disliked that he had to do. The Royal whipping-boy did them all.

 _TUTOR: "Your room is a disgrace, Prince Tarby! Toys all over! Clean it up!"_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Royal whipping-boy?"_

But worst of all was when Prince Tarby was bad on purpose. Just to see the whipping-boy receive the whipping.

 _LADY: "And I hope this teaches you a lesson, young man!"_

 _MELVIN: "...*sob*...*sob*..."_

Finally, winter drew near. The first snow blanketed the castle and the castle grounds.

 _MELVIN: "It's almost Christmas time, Prince Tarby! Soon I will see my mother and father again! And Santa Claus will come and fill my stocking and bring me presents!"_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "Ho ho! Listen to the whipping-boy! Don't you know that Santa Claus doesn't bring things to bad little boys?"_

 _MELVIN: "But I haven't been bad! I...!"_

 _PRINCE TARBY: "You've been punished, haven't you? I've seen it! I've seen you whipped a dozen times or more a week. Only bad little boys get whipped. I don't get whipped! I'm good! Santa will visit me! Not you!"_

Finally, on the day before Christmas, a coach brought the baker's boy, the whipping-boy, down from the castle to village far below to the child's mother and father.

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "My baby! My baby!"_

 _HERKIMER: "My son!"_

 _MELVIN: "Mommy! Daddy!"_

 _COACHMAN: "I'll be back to pick him up tomorrow!"_

Soon, he told his mother and father all about the castle and why the king had brought him there.

 _MELVIN: "...and so, if he's bad, I get whipped for him. But that doesn't make me bad, does it, father? Mother?"_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Of course not, my child."_

 _HERKIMER: "The dirty...!"_

 _MELVIN: "Then Santa Claus will fill my stocking and he will bring me presents!"_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Well, I...we..."_

 _HERKIMER: "Of course, my son! Why shouldn't he?"_

 _MELVIN: "Because, Prince Tarby said Santa wouldn't! He said that bad little get whipped and since I got whipped."_

 _HERKIMER: "Never you mind, my son! Go hang up a stocking! The biggest one you can find!"_

And so, with tears of joy streaming down his little face, the Royal whipping-boy hung up a large threadbare stocking.

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Herkimer! You know we have no money! How could we-!"_

 _HERKIMER: "Hush, Susquehannah! The boy will hear you!"_

Then he climbed into his ned and fell fast asleep, a faint smile on his tear-stained face.

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "How could you promise the boy, Herkimer? You know we're broke. Now he'll expect Santa Claus to fill his stocking and give him presents."_

 _HERKIMER: "The king should do it, Susquehannah. The king should do it. After all the boy's been through. He owes it to him! The king should fill Melvin's stocking! And I'm going to ask him to."_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Herkimer! Come back! He'll laugh at you! He'll laugh!"_

 _KING IRVING: "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"_

And so, that night...

 _HERKIMER: "He...he laughed at me, Susquehannah."_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Come to bed, Herkimer."_

But the next morning...

 _MELVIN: "Daddy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up! Santa was here!"_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Huh?"_

 _HERKIMER: "Wha?"_

The boy skipped and danced as he led his sleepy-eyed parents to the pile of gayly-wrapped packages.

 _MELVIN: "See? See?"_

 _HERKIMER: "Well, I'll be!"_

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Look! A note! What does it say, Herkimer?"_

 _HERKIMER: "It says, 'Merry Christmas, Melvin! Since you were the prince's whipping-boy, you deserve his presents! And there's one for your daddy, too. Just what he asked for!' And it's signed, 'Santa Claus'!"_

Indeed, there was a present for the whipping-boy's daddy. But it was not quite what he had expected. The stocking hanging over the dusty old fireplace bulged strangely. It was red and sticky and a scarlet stream dripped from the hole in it's toe to the worn hearth.

 _SUSQUEHANNAH: "Look, Herkimer!"_

 _HERKIMER: "Good lord!"_

Yes. Herkimer had wanted the king to fill Melvin's stocking, so Santa had given him what he wanted!


	15. Star Light, Star Bright

**Star Light, Start Bright (The Vault of Horror #34, Dec/Jan 1964)**

Dusk had settled over the drab grounds of Dethmoor and the misty rain fell with a diabolical perseverance, covering all with a wetness that was maddening. Hartley Quimb hunched his shoulders against the chill and caused softly. He cursed the rain and the cold. He cursed the uniformed guards beside him and the minister before him, the gibbering crowd surrounding him and the gnawing fear inside him. He even cursed the body lying in the uncovered coffin.

From behind him, a figure darted to the coffin and playfully fingered the face of the corpse. No one made a move to stop him. Hartley Quimb was horrified to the point of nausea. The figure scurried back to the crowd. The minister spoke on, uninterrupted, and Harley Quimb lowered his gaze to the quivering mud puddles.

 _GUARD: "Bit of a shock, eh, guv'nor?"_

Hartley Quimb turned to look at the stern-faced guard who addressed him

 _QUIMB: "Lord, yes! That was horrible!"_

 _GUARD: "Aye, but it's important. Ye'll see, after ye've been here a bit."_

Another figure crept to the coffin. He gazed curiously at the body, his eyes saddened. Then, impulsively, he slapped the corpse across the cheek.

 _QUIMB: "Good heavens! Did you see that?"_

 _GUARD: "Aye. We let them do that. A funeral is a treat to these poor souls and it helps us to control them. We use it as a means to enforce discipline."_

Hartley Quimb began to waver. He swore at himself for ever having accepted the position of master of Dethmoor Asylum. If he hadn't need the money.

 _QUIMB: "Discipline?"_

 _GUARD: "Aye, guv'nor. If the inmates don't behave themselves, we don't let them attend the next funeral. It's about the only way we can control them, understaffed as we are."_

The coffin had at last been covered, yet a few of the inmates ran forward to lift the lid slightly and peer inquisitively inside. Then the coffin was lowered into the ground.

 _QUIMB: "Thank god! It's over."_

 _GUARD: "Aye. I guess ye're a bit hungry, not having a bite to eat since ye arrived this afternoon. Well, we'll soon fix that."_

The thought of food never entered Hartley's mind. But he walked with the guards to the mess hall, which seated both inmates and custodians alike.

 _GUARD: "Ye must understand, sir. The inmates aren't insane. For the most part, they're merely childish. They just act and think like little kids."_

 _QUIMB: "What happened to the master who preceded me?"_

 _GUARD: "Oh, him, poor soul. The inmates killed him when he tried to take away their funeral privileges."_

Hartley Quimb nervously lifted the fork and speared a choice piece of steak. He was about to place it in his mouth when his gaze drifted out over the table. His hand trembled. A hundred glaring eyes burned into his. A hundred hate-filled eyes watched his every move. Suddenly, he saw the slovenly food they were eating. He glanced at the juicy, tender morsel of steak on his fork and then looked again into their venomous eyes. The fork clattered to the table as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

 _QUIMB: "I...I'm not very hungry. If you'll excuse me, I...I think I'll got to my room."_

 _GUARD: "Well, alright, guv'nor. Mind if I take ye're steak?"_

Hartley Quimb hurried from the mess hall as fast as his wobbling legs would carry him and climbed the rickety stairs to his room. Once inside, he bolted the flimsy lock and leaned heavily against the door.

 _QUIMB: "They hate me! I could tell! They want to kill me too! They hate me!"_

He threw himself onto the bed, based tiredly through the sky-light at the sky. The rain and stopped and he dozed. Suddenly, he was awakened by the grasping of many hands. He felt a cloth being roughly shoved into his mouth. His eyes bugged open and beheld a sight that froze his heart beat. A dozen inmates surrounding his bed, fiendishly tying him with stout ropes.

In horror, he felt them lift him from the bed and carry him from the building. Quietly, they moved across the cobblestone courtyard, in the shadows, past other buildings. They reached their destination; the carpentry shop. As he was carried inside, he sensed a multitude of people and craned his neck this way and that, the better to see. In the dim light, his eyes fell upon...an open coffin!

A sound gurgled in his throat. He tried to get free, he squirmed and twisted, but he was lifted and then placed in the coffin. His body gave an involuntary shudder of revulsion and tears rolled freely from his eyes. He heard the shuffling of many feet, the whisper of cloth rustling against the cloth and the soft sobs of sorrow. Was this a game? What were they going to do to him?! Suddenly, from all sides, the mourners loomed into view. In his mind's eyes, visions of the funeral he had witnessed only a few hours before flashed by. He trembled at the thought of it. The coffin lid descended.

In the ebony blackness, he cried out silently in terror. Would they let him suffocate? He listened and heard wails of protest. What was wrong? He heard the inmates conversing in low tones. Then, suddenly, the lid was removed. Were they going to free him?

Surely, they could only be playing a game. There was an expectant quiet, broken only by the sound of sawing wood. A face suddenly leered into the coffin and suddenly disappeared. And then the coffin lid was overhead. They were putting it back on. The ooh's and aah's that followed were all appreciative. And no wonder. The lid now had a window through which he could receive air. Or was it put there so the inmates could see him better? He didn't know. Faces appeared from all angles. Happy faces, sad faces, curious faces, worried faces. Different faces, different expressions, yet each one the same as all the others. A hand reached through the opening and felt of his cheek. Hartley Quimb closed his eyes, but even then he heard the people brushing against the outside of the coffin, sense their horrid heads framed the opening. A hand pinched his nose.

He had lost all track of time. He lay there, motionless, while the mourning inmates slowly filed by, paying their "last respects". Each time he opened his eyes, a different face was peering into his. He tried to pray, but he couldn't remember the words. Finally, he felt the coffin being lifted. Would they return him to his room now. They hadn't really tried to hurt him. They were merely playing. Little children, that's all. The ceiling was much closer now. Obviously, the coffin was being carried on their shoulders. The celling moved by above him and soon he was passed through the doorway into the night.

Save for a few clouds, the sky was clear. Stars twinkled brightly, unconcerned with the eerie pageant that was taking place below them. He listened to the shuffling steps of the procession on the cobblestones. They were just little children just playing a game. They were probably bringing him back to his room. He saw the top of a hard building slowly by above him. Wasn't that his building? It disappeared from view. Again there was nothing, but the star-filled sky above him. That couldn't have been the building where his room was. He looked again at the sky. Clouds were forming. Star light, star bright...he couldn't remember the rest.

A tree passed by overhead, it's leaves whispering in the wind, it's branches waving goodbye as it passed from his sight. Where were they taking him? He had lost all sense of direction. They were just children. Little children. Just little children...who had killed his predecessor. They passed beneath a wrought-iron archway. A gate! Against the darkening sky, he tried to spell the letters he saw. He had to read them backwards. C...E...M...

Hartley Quimb's heart pounded till he thought it would first through his chest. Were they really serious? Had they forgotten he wasn't a real corpse? They wouldn't bury him alive, would they? He felt himself being lowered to the ground. A moment later, he heard the unmistakable sound of shovels digging into the rain-soaked earth. The realization undermined his last vestige of self-control and he fainted. Hartley Quimb opened his eyes and sat up in bed. Drops of rain from a leak in the skylight hit his face. He untangled his legs from the mass of twisted sheets, pulled the choking bed clothes from his mouth and heaved a sigh. He wiped the perspiration from his head and gave fervent thanks that it had only been a horrible nightmare. He lay back on his pillow, relaxed.

Hartley Quimb smiled softly, every fiber of his being tingling with relief. He looked up through the skylight at the winking stars and imagined them to be relieved for him, too. He recited the poem. Star light, star bright and this time he knew all the words. He closed is eyes momentarily and made a wish. And when he opened his eyes again...a face was grinning down at him. Started, Hartley Quimb tried to leap up, but he found that he could not move! He tried to yell, to scream, but couldn't! The face disappeared. And then a shovelful of dirt hit him flush in the face.


	16. For the Love of Death

**For the Love of Death (The Haunt of Fear #13, May/June 1952)**

Morton Macawber drew aside the curtain and peered out at the deserted street. He looked up and down, scowled and cursed to himself.

 _MORTON: "Hmmph! Blasted newspaper boy! He's late again! Why can't he ever get here on time?"_

For the next fifteen minutes, Morton paced the floor nervously, waiting for the familiar sound of the newspaper landing on the front porch.

 _MORTON: "Next time that brat comes for his money, I'll tell him a thing or two! He..."_

The dull thud outside halted Mr. Macawber's raving. He darted to the window and peered out anxiously. A small boy on a bicycle pedaled off down the street.

 _MORTON: "It's him! He's been here! It's about time!"_

Morton flung open the front door and rushed out to the folded paper lying on the weatherbeaten porch.

 _MORTON: "Please. Please let there be another one. Please."_

Back into the house, the wild-eyed man scurried, clutching the paper to his chest.

 _MORTON: "There wasn't one yesterday or the day before! Two whole days without one! There has to be one today! Please!"_

Feverishly, Mr. Macawber unfolded the paper and began flinging the unwanted sections to the floor.

 _MORTON: "World news, bah! Local news, phew! Financial! Real estate! Ah, here it is! Obituaries!"_

Morton's glance sped up and down the obituary column. Suddenly, his somber countenance exploded in a leering grin.

 _MORTON: "There is one! There's a funeral today!"_

Happiness, sheer ecstacy showed on Morton's face as he read the details.

 _MORTON: "'Abner P. Wigginbottom, beloved husband and father, passed away.' So and so, such and such. Oh! 'Services will be held at the Terminal Funeral Parlor at 1 P.M. today'! Let's see. It's 12:15 now. I can still make it!"_

Morton whistled a cheery little tune as he dressed hurriedly in his black suit. It was just 1 P.M. when he arrived at the Terminal Funeral Parlor. He joined the line of mourners that were passing before the open casket.

 _MORTON: "What an exquisite coffin. How nice the deceased looks. My, a satin lining!"_

After paying his respects to the dead Mr. Wigginbottom, Morton took a seat at the rear of the chapel and awaited the services.

 _MORTON: "Too bad Mr. Wigginbottom cannot appreciate the dignity he now enjoys. It's such a shame that one has to die to be treated with such adoration and reverential regard. Probably, while he was alive, his loved ones hated him."_

A tear stole out of the corner of one of Mr. Macawber's eyes and dribbled down his cheek as he listened to Mr. Wigginbottom's funeral oration.

 _REVEREND: "...but he leaves behind the warmth, the love, the kindness he so unselfishly gave to all who crossed his path of life. In conclusion,..."_

 _MORTON: "Abner sounds like he was such a good man."_

After the funeral services, Morton followed a small group to one of the waiting cars. All the way to the cemetery, he studied the other sobbing passengers.

 _MORTON: "Now that he's dead, they mourn him. Their tears fall for him."_

When the funeral procession reached the cemetery, Morton followed the others to the open yawning grave.

 _MORTON: "This is the one time in a person's existence when his evils are forgotten and his virtues are extolled, eulogized."_

As the coffin was lowered softly into the black pit, Mr. Macawber reflected.

 _MORTON: "If only man would treat his fellow man with this respect and love all through his lifetime instead of after he is dead."_

Then the rich black soil resounded on the coffin lid as the grave was filled. Morton Macawber smiled sadly.

 _MORTON: "That is why I come to every funeral I can. Because here, at least, I can watch a person being treated with dignity he never enjoyed while he lived."_

After the grave was covered and the other mourners had departed, Mr. Macawber strolled among the gravestones, reading the inscriptions and the epitaphs etched in them.

 _MORTON: "'Fenwick Appleby'! Ah! I remember his funeral. It was so stately. And 'Matilda Nickelbury'! There was a final homage. Ah, Matilda. What a funeral you had. Beautiful! Just beautiful! And you, Fenwick. Too bad you couldn't appreciate the splendor of your final rites. And you, Aldious, Fanny, Abner. Too bad all of you couldn't experience the dignity and solemnity you received. As for myself, I am alone in the world. My funeral will never have such pomp, such lavishness as yours had. Oh, if it were only possible for me to enjoy it just once! But...why not?"_

Morton Macawber walked all the way home from the cemetery that night, formulating his plans.

 _MORTON: "Phineas Winkleson. He's the richest man in town. His funeral would really be something. And I'd know how it feels. Every moment of it. The lying in state, the funeral oration, the solemn ride in the flower-bedecked hearse, the lowering of the coffin into the grave, everything! It would be happening to me!"_

That night, Morton cut the obituary notice of the funeral he'd attended that day from the newspaper and pasted it in his scrapbook.

 _MORTON: "Hmmm! Number two hundred and nine. Not bad for only two years."_

Yep! This creep's been watching the "obits" and attending funerals for two years. Now he's set on seeing how it actually feels instead of just watching. After finishing the scrapbook, Morton went into the kitchen.

 _MORTON: "I'll have to forego the open-coffin ceremony for the sake of safety. This knife will do nicely."_

Later that night, Morton crouched in the bushes outside the Winkleson mansion.

 _MORTON: "Old Phineas always takes his constitutional before retiring. I've seen him so many times. Ah! Here he comes now!"_

Old Phineas certainly was surprised when Morty sprang from the bushes. Why, you could have knocked him over with a feather. Morty used the knife.

 _PHINEAS: "AAARRRRGGHHHH!"_

In fact, he used it a great deal. He practically defaced Phineas.

 _MORTON: "Sorry, Mr. Winkleson. But I must make sure your family requests a closed-coffin ceremony!"_

When Mr. Macawber left Mr. Winkleson, there was no doubt about that. Even an expert undertaker didn't stand a chance.

 _WOMAN: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"_

The next day, Morton read of Mr. Winkleson's untimely demise in the newspaper. The obituary column carried the information he needed.

 _MORTON: "Here it is! Services will be held at the Apodosis Funeral Parlor at noon tomorrow."_

Morton proceeded with further arrangements.

 _MORTON: "I'll pay you fifty dollars, Amos. All you have to do is stay outside the funeral parlor follow the procession, see where they bury old phineas and come and dig him up."_

 _AMOS: "Dig him up?" I dunno. Fifty dollars, huh? That sure is a lot of money."_

 _MORTON: "You don't have to open the coffin, Amos. Just uncover it."_

 _AMOS: "Gonna rob the gold from his teeth, eh, Mr. Macawber?"_

 _MORTON: "Nothing like that!"_

 _AMOS: "Okay, okay. Don't get sore!"_

 _MORTON: "You won't fail me now, Amos?"_

 _AMOS: "Don't worry, Mr. Macawber. I'll do it."_

Late that night, Morton pried open the rear window of the Apodosis Funeral Parlor.

 _MORTON: "There. That was easy."_

After some investigating, Morton found old Phineas's coffin.

 _MORTON: "Ah, here you are, Mr. Winkleson! Come now. I'm taking your place. You'll never miss anything and your funeral will mean so much to me."_

Morton lifted Mr. Winkleson's body from the casket and carried it to the cellar.

 _MORTON: "By the time they discover your body down here, it'll be too late."_

Hiding the body carefully amidst the cellar's trash, Morton returned upstairs.

 _MORTON: "What a beautiful coffin! Satin-lined! Brass handles!"_

Morton climbed into the coffin and closed the lid.

 _MORTON: "I'm finally going to know what it feels like to gave a luxurious funeral!"_

Morton lay in Phineas's casket all that night and through the morning, drinking in the solemnity of the situation. He reveled in it's plush interior, listening to the sobbing as the mourners began to file in towards noon.

 _MORTON: "They're crying...for me!"_

Outside the funeral parlor, Amos waited patiently for the series to take place.

 _AMOS: "Crazy old Macawber. Oh, well. Fifty bucks is fifty bucks."_

Inside, Morton listened to the scratching on the coffin lid as the floral wreaths were placed upon it.

 _MORTON: "Ah, what exotic aromas! Flowers...for me!"_

The coffin was rolled into the chapel. Morton listened to the gliding wheels, the organ music, the whimpering mourners.

 _MORTON: "The services are about to begin! Services...for me!"_

Soon, the solemn voice of the orator was heard, filling the chapel. Morton drank in the words, thrilled at the homage paid to the deceased.

 _REVEREND: "...and when a murderer's knife took this beloved man from his devoted family, it took from them great joy and happiness..."_

The funeral eulogy droned on, extolling the deceased Phineas Winkleson and Morton grinned in his coffin. At last, he was experiencing the dignity and adoration given to a departed. At last, he was enjoying a funeral from the dead man's point-of-view.

 _REVEREND: "...and with these final words, the services are at an end. Those who wish to..."_

 _MORTON: "Ah! Now I will be carried to the hearse. I will know how it feels to be lifted by pall-bearers!"_

Morton listened to the shuffling of feet as the pall-bearers moved toward the coffin.

 _REVEREND: "Those who wish to leave my do so at this time!"_

Morton did not hear the strange request. He was too enthralled with the rapture of being born aloft by many strong hands.

 _REVEREND: "And now, in respect to the departed one's requests and instructions, we commit his last remains!"_

Nor did Morton Macawber hear the drapes at one end of the chapel draw open and the huge iron door swing wide. All he knew was his coffin was movie forward with dignity, with solemnity.

 _REVEREND: "We commit his last requests of the consuming fires of the crematory!"_


	17. The Thing from the Sea

**The Thing from the Sea (Tales from the Crypt #20, Oct/Nov 1950)**

You are about to begin a frightful adventure concerning a luxurious ocean liner and the strange and unexplained events that will occur in...Stateroom 13! You are on a crowded pier in New York, trying to secure passage on the "Ocean Queen", bound for England. The trip is urgent and you are pleading with the purser.

 _YOU: "But you must have one berth open! I'll take any class!"_

 _PURSER: "Well, as a matter of fact, sir, that is...if you're not superstitious."_

What wonderful luck. Only one of the two berths in Stateroom 13 has been taken. You pay the purser and board the ship. And not a moment too soon for as you reach the top of the gangplank...

 _OCEAN QUEEN CREW: "Cast off the forward lines!" "Make ready for departure!" "Last call! All ashore that's going ashore!"_

You watch as the dock slips away. The little tugs straining and pushing the giant liner out into midstream. Then...

 _STEWARD: "May I take your bags and show you to your cabin, sir?"_

 _YOU: "Why, thank you, Steward."_

 _STEWARD: "Ah, what number stateroom do you have, sir?"_

 _YOU: "Why, 13!"_

The color drains from the Steward's cheeks. His eyes fill with horror as he stares at you.

 _YOU: "Why, what seems to be the trouble, Steward?"_

 _STEWARD: "Oh, er...nothing, sir. Nothing."_

The Steward sets your bags down in your Stateroom, checks the porthole to see that it is securely bolted and then edges toward the door. There is a look of fear on his face.

 _YOU: "What is it, old man? What is there about this cabin that frightens you?"_

 _STEWARD: "I...I...don't know. Only...only...no one who has ever been assigned this cabin has completed his crossing in it. Something, someone, frightens them into leaving it. Why, one passenger even went mad from what he saw here."_

 _YOU: "Wha...? What did they see? Tell me!"_

The Steward mumbles something about ghosts and slips from your grasp. You watch as he hurries down the corridor and then you close the door.

 _YOU: "Ghosts, bah! He's probably playing a trick on me. Suggestion and stuff."_

You stow your belongings in your assigned berth and survey the cabin. It it small with one porthole and the two berths.

 _YOU: "Hmmm. I wonder who has the upper? His baggage is here. He's probably up on deck saying goodbye to the good old U.S.A."_

After dinner, you decide to turn in. You are tired and the free sea air made you sleepy.

 _YOU: "Oh, hello? I guess you must be my roommate. Glad to meet you."_

 _MAN: "Same here. Rather small stateroom, isn't it? Had to take it. Only one left."_

 _YOU: "Yes, that's what they told me. Well, guess I'll turn in. I'm pretty tired."_

 _MAN: "Me, too. Glad you're here, though. The Steward told me some awful yarn about this room."_

 _YOU: "Oh, I wouldn't take it seriously. He's probably pulling your leg."_

 _MAN: "Yes, well, good night."_

You don't know how long you've been asleep. Only...suddenly your eyes are open. Your stateroom smells strange The peculiar smell of dampness, stale seawater. And you are cold. A gush of air is coming from the open porthole.

 _YOU: "Blast! The porthole is open! I'd better close it or risk a nasty cold!"_

You get up and stumble to the porthole in the darkness. The bolts have been loosened and the fine spray from the sea wets your face. You slam it shut, bolting it tightly and then, from the berth above yours, comes a blood-curdling cry.

 _ **AAHH!**_

 _YOU: "What the?"_

With a single leap, your roommate springs from his berth to the floor and dashes madly toward the stateroom door.

 _YOU: "What is it? What's wrong?"_

 _MAN: "No! No! No!"_

You listen to his footsteps running full speed down the corridor. Poor old boy. Probably seasick. You shut the door and grope your way back to your berth. Your eyes close and you sleep again. Then, during the early morning hours, you are awakened by a groan.

 _O-O-O-O-O-H!_

 _YOU: "Hmmm! Not a very good sailor. Poor chap. Listen to him moan."_

The next morning, the sun-streaming through the porthole awakens you and you dress quickly. The curtains of the upper berth are drawn. You leave without disturbing your roommate.

 _YOU: "Probably isn't in the mood for breakfast anyway."_

On deck, the ship's doctor stops you.

 _DOCTOR: "I...I wonder if you can tell me what happened last night? We found your roommate cowering in a passage babbling like an idiot."_

 _YOU: "Wha...? You mean, he didn't come back to the stateroom?"_

 _DOCTOR: "No. We have him in the ship's hospital. He's suffering from shock. Can you tell me what he saw that might have caused it?"_

 _YOU: "I...I have no idea."_

 _DOCTOR: "Look, you have a large cabin. Why don't you bring your things over there and spend the rest of your trip with me?"_

 _YOU: "Oh, really, doctor. Are you inferring that the rumors about Stateroom 13 are true?"_

You laugh, refusing the doctor's invitation. You spend the day relaxing in your deck-chair, swimming in the ship's pool and playing canasta in the game room after dinner. It is very late when you return to your room.

 _YOU: "Ho-hum. Gad, I'm tired! That berth certainly looks inviting."_

You check the porthole to see that it is securely bolted and then you stretch out on your berth. You lay awake thinking about the agonizing scream of your roommate the night before, when...

 _YOU: "What the? The porthole is open again and, phew, that smell of seawater and decay."_

You get up and close it. You are frightened. You distinctly remember checking it before you went to bed. You tighten the bolts with all of your strength and stand there for a while, staring out to sea. Suddenly...

 _O-O-O-O-O-H!_

 _YOU: "What's that? A moan coming from the upper berth."_

You spring to the berth and tear the curtains apart, thrusting your hand in to discover if there is anyone there.

 _YOU: "That smell! That nauseating smell of stagnant saltwater! And...and...AAAAAAAGH!"_

You take hold of something...something cold and wet, icy cold, something like a man's arm. And as you pull, the creature hurls itself from the berth. A clammy, oozy mass.

 _YOU: "Keep away! Keep away!"_

In an instant, the horrible abomination has darted out of the stateroom door.

 _YOU: "Good lord! So that's what is is! I...I'll follow it!"_

You chase the dark shadow through the dimly-lit passage and up to the companionway.

 _YOU: "Blasted thing! It's getting away!"_

You watch as it seems to go over the rail and into the sea.

 _YOU: "I...must be dreaming. That cursed meal tonight, it...it didn't agree with me."_

You cannot return to that horrible room, so you walk the deck, finally curling up in a deck chair under a steamer blanket to sleep a dreamless sleep. The morning sun blinds you as you are shaken awake.

 _YOU: "Oh, it...it is you, captain!"_

 _CAPTAIN: "I went to your stateroom. You weren't there. Is anything wrong?"_

 _YOU: "Well, frankly, captain, there is! Something very horrible happened in my stateroom last night. It must have been my imagination."_

 _CAPTAIN: "Why don't you let me fix you up in the officer's quarters for the remainder of the trip?"_

 _YOU: "Look, here, captain. Can't we get to the bottom of this? There must be a logical explanation."_

 _CAPTAIN: "You are right, sir. Only what can I do? I'm inclined to board up the room."_

 _YOU: "That will solve thing. Perhaps it's only a stowaway trying to frighten people out of that stateroom so that he can spend the remainder of the trip in comfort. A maniac perhaps."_

 _CAPTAIN: "Hmm! That thought has never occurred to me. You may be right. I tell you what. Tonight, I will stand watch with you. If he shows his face, we'll be able to overpower him together."_

 _YOU: "Good, captain. I'm glad you are taking a more realistic attitude than your superstitious crew."_

You are relieved that you will not have to spend another night alone in that accursed stateroom. Together with the captain, tonight you may solve this baffling problem.

 _CAPTAIN: "See you then, at about ten!"_

 _YOU: "Yes, Stateroom 13!"_

You day is spent anxiously and towards evening, you find yourself becoming nervous. Finally, it is ten o'clock and you make your way down to the stateroom.

 _YOU: "Ah, captain. Right on time I see."_

 _CAPTAIN: "Let's go in!"_

You check the porthole, you and the captain, and make sure that it is tightly bolted.

 _YOU: "I'll sit here on the berth. Why don't you sit there on my valise?"_

 _CAPTAIN: "Good. Now shall we turn out the light?"_

The room is dark. Only the hum of the engines is heard far below and the muffled roar of the sea outside. Suddenly, you rush to the porthole and slam it shut. Some strange force seems to resist you.

 _YOU: "Here we go, captain! Things are beginning to pop!"_

 _CAPTAIN: "I...I...AAAAAAAH!"_

You spin around. The thing, the horrible creature of last night is rising out of the top berth. The captain is shrinking back.

 _YOU: "That's...that's it! Let's get it, captain!"_

 _CAPTAIN: "No! No! It can't be you! You're dead! I murdered you! I killed you right here in that berth! Pushed you out that porthole into the sea! You can't be! You can't!"_

Horrified, you watch. The captain slumps to the floor, white as chalk. Then, satisfied, the thing turns and hurls itself out of the porthole.

 _YOU: "Good lord!"_

The captain is dead. Literally frightened to death. And as you turn to look after the thing, you are astounded to see that...

 _YOU: "The porthole is closed and...bolted!"_


	18. Madam Bluebeard

**Madam Bluebeard (The Vault of Horror #27, Dec 1951/Jan 1952)**

For the beginning of our story, let's look in on a pathetic scene, a funeral, in a cemetery. As a group of black-clad mourners gathered around the sobbing widow watch, the coffin of the recently-deceased is lowered into the yawning black pit. Sad, isn't it? Feel sorry for the poor widow? Don't! Notice the neat line of graves beside the new one? Count them! Yes, there are six others! This poor woman is burying her seventh husband! Is there any wonder I've christened her "Madam Bluebeard"? After all, she killed them all.

 _MOURNERS: "Poor Teresa. I don't see how she's stood up under these emotional shocks." "Seven husbands in seven years all accidentally killed."_

Oh, yes! That's what everyone believes. That Teresa's seven husbands all died accidentally. Even her husbands believed it. That is, all except Freddy. The one they're burying now. He knows different. Or I should say "knew" different. Ah, but I'm getting ahead of my story.

 _MAN #1: "Poor girl."_

 _MAN #2: "Poor? That's a laugh. She's loaded. Her seven husbands' estates amount to a tidy sum. Why...why if I didn't think Teresa was a jinx, I'd marry her myself. But I'd probably end up like all the others in a freak accident."_

 _MAN #1: "The others? How did they die?"_

 _MAN #2: "Well, let's see. Earl was her first. It happened about three months after they were married. Earl had probably fallen asleep while fishing. His boat drifted into the rapids and he was killed going over the falls. Howard, Teresa's second, fell off a cliff while they were honeymooning in a trailer. Douglas, number three, was killed on a hunting trip. His gun exploded in his face. Neal, the fourth, fell from his office window fourteen stories. Warren, Teresa's fifth, was killed when their car was struck by a train. Teresa was thrown clear and suffered only mild bruises. Then Peter, husband number six, was electrocuted while taking a bath. A radio he was listening to fell into the tub of water. And, of course, you know how poor Freddy was killed."_

 _MAN #1: "Yes, well, Teresa's leaving. I guess it's all over. Coming?"_

Oh, sure, Earl fell asleep while fishing. But he knew about the rapids and the falls downstream, so he was very careful to tie up the boat to an overhanging bough before taking a snooze. Only... And as for Howard, well, he was inside the trailer when Teresa stopped it at the cliff edge. When she screamed, Howard came out of the trailer door full-speed. And Douglas, husband number three, met his untimely fate because after cleaning his gun, he left it around where Teresa could get at it. She poured molten lead into the barrel, blocking it up.

Neal, number four, was leaning out of his office window, looking for the new cadillac Teresa claimed was parked below when Teresa yanked the scatter rug out from beneath his feet. As for Warren, husband five, he had made the mistake of falling asleep while Teresa was driving home from a party. She had just stopped their car on the grade-crossing, stepped out and waited. And Peter, who loved music, erred when he took his bath with his back to the door. He never saw Teresa open it, reach the stick in and knock the radio off the shelf above the tub.

One day, while he was up, Teresa strung a strong wire taught about two feet high across the runway. And when Freddy came in for a landing...

 _ **CRASH!**_

But Freddy wasn't killed in the crash. When he crawled from the wreckage, Teresa was forced to finish the job.

 _FREDDY: "No, Teresa, no!"_

So you see why I've christened Teresa "Madam Bluebeard"? What's that you say? She must be nuts? Of course she's nuts! It stems back to her childhood when her father walked out on Teresa and her mother.

 _TERESA'S MOTHER: "Jack! What will we live on, Teresa and I?"_

 _JACK: "For my part, you can starve! Goodbye!"_

Teresa's mother had been embittered by her husband's leaving. She had brought up her daughter to hate men.

 _TERESA'S MOTHER: "Men are beasts, Teresa! They're nothing but animals!"_

 _TERESA: "Yes, mommy."_

All of her life, she had been taught...

 _TERESA'S MOTHER: "Money! That's all they're good for! The beasts!"_

 _TERESA: "Yes, mother."_

Until it became logical in Teresa's warped mind that...

 _TERESA: "Men are beasts. Wild beasts. Wild beasts must be destroyed."_

Then, when Teresa's mother died on a cold day in November...

 _TERESA: "I'll avenger your death, mother. You shall see. They'll pay for this. The beasts!"_

And so, on the first anniversary of her mother's death, Earl, Teresa's first husband, lay in his grave. Teresa came and laid a wreath on it in her mother's honor. And on the second anniversary of her mother's passing, there were two graves to place wreaths upon. Earl's and Howard, her second husband's. Year after year, the neat little row of graves grew. And year after year, Teresa came and placed wreaths upon them, in honor of her mother.

 _TERESA: "Six years, mother. And six wreaths in your memory."_

Now the black-clad mourners are filing out of the cemetery, leaving the seventh grave to be filled in. Freddy's grave.

 _GRAVEDIGGER: "Let's get to work, Hank."_

 _HANK: "Yeah, it's getting cold."_

And so the seventh grave is filled in. The neat line lies silent under the darkening sky. Earl, under the first. Howard, beneath the second. Douglas, under the third mound. Neal, below the fourth. Warren in the fifth. And Peter, the sixth. Each peaceful in death, each ignorant. And in the fresh grave, Freddy, who knows. And as the wind comes up, rustling through the bare trees, sweeping across the gravestones, whistling past the row of seven graves. It seems to sound like a whisper like someone whispering. Like Freddy telling the others.

One day in November...

 _TERESA: "I'd like to buy some wreaths. Seven of them."_

 _STOREKEEPER: "Yes, ma'am. Shall I wrap them or are you going across the road with them?"_

 _TERESA: "I'm going across the road to the cemetery. How much will that be?"_

 _STOREKEEPER: Er...fourteen, ma'am. These are hard to get this time of year."_

Teresa crossed the road and enters the cemetery, the seven wreaths in her arms.

 _TERESA: "Fourteen dollars. The beast!"_

On over the frozen mounds she moves to the neat row of seven graves. She stooped and places a wreath upon each grave. Then Teresa tosses her face toward the darkening sky and begins to laugh. But her laugh is cut short by a rumble beneath her feet. She stares down, horrified. The seven graves are each cracking open.

 _TERESA: "Good lord!"_

The rotted hand reaches up from beneath the frozen earth, grasping Teresa's ankle in a death-like grip. She cannot run. She cannot move. She can only watch as the corpse rise from their graves. Watch and scream. And as Teresa's screams end in a choking cough, silence once again descends upon the grave yard. The wind whispered across the cemetery, caressing the neat little row of graves. Only now, there are eight graves instead of seven. And on the eighth grave lie seven soiled wreaths.


	19. Out of His Head

**Out of His Head (The Vault of Horror #32, Aug/Sep 1953)**

The faint wisp of smoke curled upward from the dancing fire and drifted lazily over the campsite. Alex slipped from the tent, the gleaming cleaver in his gloved hand. The perspiration painting his face glowed in the firelight. He grimaced. Stanley knelt before the flames, stirring the smoke-blackened pot. In a moment, it would all be over. In a moment, Stanley would be dead and Alex's problem would be solved. He moved forward noiselessly, lifting the razor-sharp cleaver high over his head.

 _STANLEY: "The stew will be done in a minute, Alex. Smells delicious. Everything ready?"_

 _ALEX: "Everything's ready, Stanley!"_

Stanley stiffened as Alex's high-pitched voice exploded behind him. He whirled...too late. Alex brought the gleaming cleaver down with all his force.

 _STANLEY: "Alex! MY GOD! YAAA...ggh...!"_

It was quiet in the woods that surrounded the hunters' campsite. Far away in the night, an owl hooted. Alex stared down at Stanley, crouching as if stunned. The cleaver sunk deep in his head, the handle jutting upward awkwardly.

 _ALEX: "...*choke*..."_

Alex hesitated, a wave of nausea sweeping over him, Stanley just crouched there as if frozen. Not standing, not falling, just staring at him with dead, glassy eyes that seemed to burn with a flame of sudden understanding.

 _ALEX: "D-D-Die! Die, already! FALL DOWN AND DIE!"_

The horror of it. The cleaver sticking upward, the blood curtaining down over the frozen surprised face. Alex turned away, covering his eyes. He would remember it always. The horror of it. Behind him, he heard Stanley's body slump to the damp ground.

 _ALEX: "Oh, lord. Lord."_

The horrendous deed was done. Loathe to gaze upon the bloody remains of his former law partner, Alex moved into the tent, picked up his gun and the knapsack he had packed previously and strode out of camp.

 _ALEX: "I'm rid of him for good. Everything is mine now. No one knows we were up here together. They'll think he was attacked by a maniac."_

He traveled swiftly through the woods, finally reaching his car. The gun and the knapsack and his hunting clothes, including the shoes that he left the tell-tale tacks around the camp, were carefully disposed of. Alex dumped them into a river on his way home.

 _ALEX: "There. Now to drive back to the city and sneak into the apartment."_

Alex arrived at his apartment building toward morning. He slipped back in the sam way he had left through the cavernous catacomb-like cellar. When he reached his penthouse door, he quietly lifted the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the knob.

 _ALEX: "Perfect! My alibi is perfect. I've been in my apartment since yesterday afternoon. I had felt ill and didn't even go with Stanley on his hunting trip."_

Alex smiled. It had all been so simple. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it quietly. The door swung open. Alex stepped in. The dawn light was just beginning to filter through the huge French doors leading out onto the balcony.

 _ALEX: "Now to get undressed and ring down for breakfast. I'll...I'll...huh? Someone's out there. On the balcony. I...I...GOOD LORD!"_

The silhouette on the balcony moved toward the French doors. The early morning sunlight gleaming on the steel blade of the cleaver stuck in it's head.

 _ALEX: "My god! Stanley! NO! NO!"_

Fear and revulsion pounded down into Alex's heaving stomach. He lifted his clenched fists to his mouth, closed his eyes and screamed.

 _ALEX: "YAAAEEEEEE...!"_

When he opened his eyes, the figure on the balcony was gone. Alex stared out at where it had been; sick, trembling.

 _ALEX: "It's...It's all my imagination! Stanley's dead! He's back upstate deep in the woods. I'm seeing things."_

There was a pounding on the front door. Alex spun around. A voice drifted through.

 _SAMMY: "You alright, Mr. Melton?"_

 _ALEX: "I'm...I'm fine, Sammy. I...I was having a bad dream. I-I just woke up. Er...will you have breakfast sent up?"_

Alex listened to the footsteps of the house-porter fading away down the hall. He hurried toward the bedroom.

 _ALEX: "Got to get into my pajamas quickly. Got to...Oh, lord! NO!"_

The figure stood in the center of the bedroom floor. It's glassy eyes staring out from the blood-covered face. The cleaver sticking awkwardly out from it's rent skull.

 _ALEX: "No! No! I won't look! I won't!"_

Alex covered his eyes, shutting out the horrible sight. And when he opened them again, the figure was gone.

 _ALEX: "Th-That's better. I-I've got to pull myself together. My nerves are shot."_

Alex undressed quickly and slipped into his pajamas. He had just finished buttoning them when the knock on the door, announcing Sammy's return.

 _SAMMY: "Breakfast, Mr. Melton."_

 _ALEX: "Okay, Sammy! Just one minute."_

Alex slipped into a dressing-robe and opened the door.

 _ALEX: "What the-!? *gasp*"_

 _SAMMY: "S'matter, Mr. Melton?"_

The figure stood behind Sammy, grinning. It's eyes wide and burning. It's head tilted crazily as if the cleaver imbedded there was too heavy. Alex closed his eyes, turning away.

 _SAMMY: "I said, what'sa matter, Mr. Melton?"_

 _ALEX: "N-Nothing, Sammy! Nothing! Just wheel it over there to the couch, eh?"_

After the house-porter left, Alex sat down and stared at the unappetizing food. There was no hunger in him. No desire to eat. He had only ordered the food to establish his alibi. He retched and looked away.

 _ALEX: "Oh, god! No! NOT AGAIN!"_

It stood there; bloody, swaying it's eyes bulging. It's teeth bared in a death-grin.

 _ALEX: "Go away! Go away! Oh, lord!"_

Alex jammed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the apparition was gone.

 _ALEX: "I've got to have a drink! I'm a nervous wreck!"_

He staggered across the huge luxurious living room to the well-appointed bar. The gurgling whiskey pouring into the glass sounded like distant laughter.

 _ALEX: "It's all in my mind. I keep seeing what isn't there. I keep...NO! NO!"_

As he lifted the glass to his lips, the figure stood before him: grotesque, appalling, sickening. The liquor bottle smashed on the polished hardwood floor. Alex shut his eyes.

 _ALEX: "You're not there! I don't really see you!"_

He opened his eyes. The figure grinned at him stupidly, bloody. The shining cleaver wedged deep in it's skull.

 _ALEX: "OH, GOD! GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

He shut his eyes, shutting out the awful sight.

 _ALEX: "I won't look! I won't! You can't make me!"_

One minute passed. Two. Alex opened one eye.

 _ALEX: "Oh, lord! It's still there!"_

He clamped the eye shut again. With his eyes shut, he couldn't see the horrible sight. With his eyes shut, he was free of it. He waited.

 _ALEX: "After a while, I'll settle down. It'll go away. A drink. I need a drink."_

He turned with shut eyes to the bar, feeling for a glass, a bottle, knocking them over, spilling, smashing. Finally, in desperation, he opened his eyes. The figure was behind the bar now, smirking at him.

 _ALEX: "YAAAAAAAHHHHH!"_

It was torture for him, trying to move about with shut eyes, trying to find his cigarettes, a match. Trying to satisfy his cravings. He couldn't help opening his eyes. And when he did, the figure was always there. Finally...

 _ALEX: "A blindfold. I'll fool him. I'll show him! I can beat him. There!"_

He sat with the blindfold over his eyes, sat all morning and into the afternoon. Sammy came and went, Alex refusing his lunch. He staggered around the apartment.

 _ALEX: "Where are those blasted cigarettes?"_

He felt the cigarette urn pitch over, drop to the floor. He went to his hands and knees, feeling for them, cursing, reaching, not finding one. Finally, he tore the blindfold from his eyes.

 _ALEX: "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"_

The figure was there, lying on the floor, grinning up at him.

 _ALEX: "No! No! I'll show you!"_

He got to his feet, stumbled toward the kitchen. The figure stood before him, barring his way.

 _ALEX: "I'll show you!"_

Wherever he looked, the figure. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers.

 _ALEX: "You can't make me see you..."_

He found what he was looking for, lifted it in a white-knuckled trembling fist...

 _ALEX: "...if...if I'm BLIND!"_

...an ice pick. The pain, the screaming, unbearable pain of plunging the ice pick. First into one eye, then into the other and the welcoming darkness that followed. Sammy's face blanched white when he saw Alex kneeling on the kitchen floor, blood pouring down his cheeks like crimson tears.

 _SAMMY: "Good lord!"_

Alex must have fainted after that. Swallowed up into his self-imposed darkness. He floated in it, hearing the faint scream of a distant siren, the muttering of subdued voices, the sound of a motor, the sweet smell of anesthetic. And then, an eternity later, he felt hands touching him, moving about the blind eyes, unwrapping bandages.

 _DOCTOR: "There. There we are."_

 _ALEX: "No! No!"_

He could see again. God, they had made him see. They had repaired his stabbed and bleeding eyes and he could make out the figure before him; dim, hazy, saying with a gleaming object sticking out of the center of it's head.

 _ALEX: "OH, LORD! NO!"_

Stanley! He would always see Stanley. There would be no escape! Never! Here...here in this hospital room, Stanley was staring at him, the meat-cleaver shining in the rent skull. Alex leaped from the bed.

 _DOCTOR: "Wait!"_

 _ALEX: "There's another way, Stanley! ANOTHER WAY!"_

The splintering of glass, the fading scream, the thud of a body rupturing and smashing against solid concrete twelve stories below. Alex had solved his problem. The figure with the shining object in the center of it's head moved to the window and looked down. The sunlight glinted upon his head-reflecter as the doctor shrugged sadly.

 _DOCTOR: "Mad. Absolutely mad."_


End file.
